


Lionesses Regnant

by FalconHonour



Series: Lionesses Regnant [1]
Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 135,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4798961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconHonour/pseuds/FalconHonour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if it wasn't the men in charge in the 15th century, but rather the women? If girls were more prized than boys? What if the Wars of the Roses had never happened; if it had been the Howards in charge rather than the Tudors? How would history have changed then?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sivvus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sivvus/gifts).



> For Vivien, who I know has been excited about this ever since I first told her it was on the cards. Enjoy, darling!

**17 March 1493**

An infant’s piercing shriek filled the air as the mother slumped back on to the pillows of the birthing bed, her usually shining honey curls dark with sweat and her creamy skin waxy with exhaustion.

“What is it?” she croaked, throat raw from screaming out her pain, “What is it?”

The midwife paused in her ministrations to beam up at the new mother.

“A beautiful healthy girl, Madam. Your Grace has given birth to a healthy baby girl.”

“A Princess,” the woman breathed, eyes lighting with relief, “God be thanked, a Princess.”

She went to hold out her arms, but a fierce undertow of exhaustion was already pulling her under. Eyelids flickering, she shook her head at the maid who made to hand her the child.

“No, Sarah. Put her in the cradle. Put her in the cradle and fetch His Grace. Tell him we have a sister for George.”

As the maid scurried to do her bidding, Elizabeth Howard, Queen Regnant of England, slid into the blessed peace of sleep, secure in the knowledge that she had done her duty at last.

 

* * *

 

When she woke, her Prince Consort, Sir Thomas, Duke of Ormonde, sat beside her. She murmured groggily as she came to and felt his hand brush her cheek.

“You did it, love,” he whispered, “We have a girl. And a feisty one at that. She’s a true Howard, you may be sure of that.”

Letting his lack of propriety slip in this, their most joyous moment as husband and wife, Elizabeth struggled to sit up.

“Bring her to me,” she ordered, “Bring her to me.”

Slipping an arm around her waist to help her, Thomas nodded to the nearest maid to comply, so Elizabeth was no more than a few moments without her daughter in her arms.

Cradling her, she gazed rapturously down at every tiny digit, every dark wisp of down clinging to the baby’s scalp, every minute whorl or crease of her rosy skin.

“She’s perfect,” she exhaled, “Absolutely perfect.”

Thomas nodded, knowing better than to interrupt his wife in that moment.

“She has my eyes,” he ventured at last.

“And your hair, it looks like,” Elizabeth answered, stroking the top of her newborn daughter’s head with a fingertip.

“We’ll call her Anne, for my aunt,” she decided, and Thomas, however much he might have wished to call the child Margaret, for his mother, or Elizabeth for his wife, or any other name from his own branch of the family, had no choice but to agree.

“As you wish,” he whispered. Elizabeth glanced at him.

“Well, go on then,” she snapped, only half-playfully, “Go and announce the birth of our Princess Anne. Go and ring the bells. Let the whole of England know the Howards are safe on her throne at last.”

 


	2. Part I: Black Bulls of Castile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to Reganx, who very kindly pre-reads and betas this for me :)

**Chapter I**

_1502_

“It is not that I deny the Prince John’s many qualities, Your Excellency, it is simply that I have my doubts as to whether he will make a suitable spouse for the Princess of Wales.  Her Highness is a spirited child.  I fear that a young man as tender as the Prince John would struggle to partner her in the way that she needs,” Elizabeth sighed, silently willing the man before her to see reason. John, with his apparent penchant for scripture, music and poetry, would enchant little Mary and probably please the woman she was likely to grow into, but he’d bore Anne to tears within months. Accomplished diplomat he might be, but if he couldn’t match Anne’s tempestuous emotions with his own, then it would spell trouble in the future. Anne enjoyed being challenged – her friendship with the Brandon girl proved that. Too pliable a husband would never bode well for the country. She’d run wild, taking heed to her own pleasures rather than the needs of her subjects.

“Am I to take it then, Your Majesty, that you no longer wish for this double union between our countries?” The cultured voice of the Spanish Ambassador, Rodrigo de Puebla, jolted Elizabeth from her musings. Startled, she glanced at the man before her. He was frowning and tugging lightly on his goatee, a sure sign that he was fuming inwardly. Knowing her country’s future safety depended on her answer, Elizabeth began to backpedal.

“No, Señor De Puebla, not at all. I am honoured that my royal sister Queen Isabel should consider my son a worthy groom for a young lady as gracious as the Princess of Asturias and am equally as delighted to welcome His Highness Prince John to England. I simply ask that Her Grace consider the possibility that His Highness may make a better Consort of Gloucester than of Wales."

“Surely Your Majesty can see that is impossible. My mistress has chosen your boy, out of all the eligible Princes in Christendom, to become Consort to her heiress. Surely it is only right that she should expect Your Majesty to pay her son the same honour?”

“Of course,” Elizabeth smiled tightly,” Her Majesty’s feelings are quite understandable. And if it were simply a matter of our children having different temperaments, I would ignore that and agree to her terms in an instant. But it is not. Your Excellency must surely have heard of my past trouble with the Scots? Ten years ago, I signed a treaty with Queen Maud that, in exchange for peace between our countries, my daughter Anne would marry her son Prince James. I fear that to renege on that now would be...”

“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” De Puebla broke in silkily, as Elizabeth paused for breath, “I believe Your Majesty is clever enough to know which would be more valuable to your country, an alliance with a country as great and powerful as my own or simply pacifying the rabble-rousing barbarians that haunt your northern borders. With Spain at your side, what need have you to fear the ineffective bellowing of the Scots? And if you must try to appease them, then surely the Duchess of Gloucester could be offered to Scotland as easily as the Princess of Wales? Surely they will understand that a nation as weak as theirs should be honoured that you consider their Prince to be worthy of even your second daughter’s hand?”

As Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek to keep from showing her fury at his insolence, De Puebla spread his hands, a slyly benevolent smile gracing his features. Elizabeth struggled with herself A united Spain was not someone she could afford to offend. She cursed the day Isabella of Castile had decided to wed the sole child of the Queen of Aragón. Yet at the same time, this compromise did have the advantage that it would make Mary a Queen as well. She would be able to leave England, step out of her sister’s shadow in a way she would never be able to do otherwise. After all, all the other offers on the table for her at the moment were younger sons, or heirs of such paltry city states that they would be bound to move to England to live with her, rather than send for her to be their brides as James would be able to do when she was older. And Mary could do with being out of Anne’s shadow. Anne was such a charismatic girl; Mary would never become the woman had the potential to be as long as she was following the hem of her sister’s gown. Yet, at the same time, Elizabeth couldn’t be seen to be too weak in the face of the Spanish pressure. She sprang to her feet.

“God’s death, Your Excellency! Will you never learn to let your bone go? You can have your double marriage! You can have it, but I want double the proposed jointure for John and an assurance that England will have a monopoly on Spain’s wool trade for the next two generations as well! God knows I’m going to need the finances to appease the Scots!”

De Puebla was an accomplished enough Ambassador to know when to stop pushing for more. Expression carefully blank in the face of Elizabeth’s outburst, he bowed deeply, sinking to one knee. “Majesty.”

Elizabeth waved a hand to dismiss him, watching as he scurried out of sight. Once she was sure he was no longer in earshot, she groaned.

“Let’s just hope the lad’s worth all the trouble he’s going to cause me.”

* * *

 

Walking in the gardens later that week, Elizabeth came across her eldest daughter and her companions practicing their skills with a bow. As she watched, Anne let an arrow fly, hitting one of the inner rings. The ebony-haired girl scowled, hating anything less than perfect success.

“Commiserations, My Lady Princess,” one of the girls around her murmured, “I’m sure you’ll hit the bulls-eye next time.”

Sybil Brandon, heiress to the Countess of Suffolk, however, simply tossed her own mahogany locks back disdainfully and loosed an arrow of her own, scoring a bulls-eye effortlessly.

“I do apologise, Anne,” she smirked, voice ringing, “It looks as though, yet again, the Brandons have outdone the Howards at bowmanship.”

Anne gasped, but even from a distance, Elizabeth could tell she was only pretending to be offended, “Watch what you say, Sybil. If I so much as breathed a word of how you treated me, Mother would have your head on as spike before the day was out.”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Sybil retorted, “My uncle’s the reason she’s safe on her throne at all. She wouldn’t touch me.”

Anne opened her mouth to add another rejoinder to the playful banter she was having with the girl Elizabeth knew she viewed almost as a second sister, but the blonde who had commiserated with her earlier, interrupted, scandalised.

“Sybil!” she cried, “You shouldn’t speak to Her Grace like that!”

The change in Anne was immediate. At the chastisement of her best friend, she swung round on the attacker like a lioness defending her young.

“Nonsense, Jane!” she snapped, “Sybil was just being honest. Heaven knows I’d rather be friends with her than with a dozen milksops like you!”

The blonde – Jane- flushed scarlet and Anne tucked her arm through Sybil’s protectively.

Elizabeth had seen enough. “Anne,” she called, extending a hand.

Her daughter turned and saw her. Slipping her arm from Sybil’s as easily as she’d entwined them, she crossed the lawn and dipped down into a graceful curtsy.

“My Lady Queen and Mother,” she murmured, voice cool and deferential.

Elizabeth looked down at her ebony head for an instant, marvelling. How had the tiny scrap of a child she had held in her arms on that joyful March morning nine years earlier become the poised half-grown woman before her? It seemed only yesterday that her oldest daughter had been dashing into her arms, joyfully heedless of protocol. Where had the time gone?

Shaking her head to clear it off such thoughts, Elizabeth helped Anne up.

“Walk with me, darling.”

Her eldest daughter obeyed, falling into step beside her as they traversed the gardens in silence.

“I spoke to the Spanish Ambassador again this morning”, Elizabeth said at last, “The treaty details have been agreed and the double marriage is going ahead. Prince John will be here in the spring.”

“And George will be leaving,” Anne spoke the words matter-of-factly, but knowing her as she did, Elizabeth sensed her lithe young body tauten as she did her best to hide how upset she was at the news. Elizabeth nodded, well aware she was about to be far more open about matters of state with Anne than her own mother had ever been with her. But then, struggling to guide her country through the turmoil that her ill-considered marriage had caused had shown her how important it was to make sure one’s heiress was trained to take up the crown from a very early age. Her own mother had never had to learn that lesson in quite the same way she had.

 Stopping, she took Anne’s hand in hers, causing the girl to look up at her in surprise, surprise she immediately schooled herself to hide.

“Prince John isn’t coming to marry Mary, Anne,” she said softly, “He’s coming to marry you. He’ll be Consort rather than Mary’s.”

Now real surprise flared in Anne’s face, “But...I thought I was to marry Prince James. I thought our daughter was to unite England and Scotland, since Queen Maud has no daughters. Why am I suddenly being betrothed to John? What’s happening to our treaty with the Scots? We can’t afford to lose that, surely?”

“No, we can’t. But I’m offering them Mary instead. Uniting the countries in fact as well as in marriage may have to wait another generation.”

“But James and I are friends. We want to marry each other. Why can’t we? You married whom you wanted.”

The words had slipped out before Anne could stop them. Elizabeth slapped her smartly across the cheek before either of them had had a chance to blink.

“Hold your tongue. You might be my heiress and I might allow you to speak your mind to me, but there’s a line between freedom and blatant disrespect. Learn it.”

Instantly, Anne dropped to her knees, playing the part of the penitent daughter far too skilfully for Elizabeth’s liking. No doubt she’d honed this skill sweet-talking her governesses to get herself out of trouble.

“I beg Your Grace’s pardon for speaking rudely and out of turn.”

“You’ll go inside and spend the rest of the afternoon sewing shirts for the poor in your bedchamber, do you hear me? Without Lady Sybil’s scintillating company. Take the blonde girl who commiserated with you earlier. She looks like she could be a steadying influence, which you seem to need.”

“Jane? But Lady Mother -” Anne burst out, horrified. Elizabeth frowned down at her and she subsided, chastened.

“You are to be Queen of England, Anne,” Elizabeth said firmly, “It would do you no harm to learn to be a little gentler to those around you. Even those you do not like.”

Silently, Anne rose and half-curtsied, “Yes, Lady Mother,” she muttered stiffly. She walked off without saying another word.

* * *

 

 “The Princess is supposed to be in her room sewing, Your Grace. It was the Queen’s orders. I’m not sure I should allow you...”

“Whether the Queen means Her Highness to think about her misbehaviour this morning or not, I doubt she will begrudge her a visit from her father. You’ll let me through, Lady Parr.”

Anne’s head snapped up at the sound of her father’s voice in her antechamber.

“Leave me, Jane,” she hissed, not caring about the way the other girl’s eyes filled at the sharpness of her tone.

“Your Highness, your mother told me to spend the afternoon with you.”

“That was before we knew my father was coming to visit me. Even angry with me she’s hardly going to begrudge me being alone with my father. Now leave.”

Reluctantly, Jane stood up and scurried out of the room, leaving by one door as Thomas Boleyn entered through another.

Thomas sank to one knee before his eldest daughter, “My Lady Princess,” he murmured, kissing her hand. Anne pulled him up and hugged him, burrowing a little closer to him than normal, her unusual weakness the only sign that her disagreement with her mother had shaken her.

He led her to the bed and sat her down on it, stroking her ebony hair softly, “Hush, sweetheart. It’s not your fault. It’s not.”

“I just don’t understand. I’ve been betrothed to James for as long as I can remember. We were supposed to unite England and Scotland into one kingdom, supposed to create a new Albion together. Why has Mother suddenly changed her mind?”

“It’s politics, darling, that’s all.”

“Don’t lie to me, Papa! It’s not politics, it can’t be! If it was just politics, Mother would leave my betrothal to James intact and force the Spanish to accept Mary in my stead! Why does this double marriage suddenly take precedence over the idea of a new Albion, and why am I the one suffering? I was supposed to be Queen twice over, to have England for my own and the Crown Matrimonial of Scotland. Now I’ll just be Queen of England.”

“I know, I know. It doesn’t seem fair. And to an extent, you’re right. Your mother is stripping you of the chance to be one of the greatest Queens in Christendom, but she’s only doing it for love of your siblings. She only wants what’s best for George and Mary. There are very few Princesses of George’s age available.”

“What about Claude of France?” Anne flashed back.

“Betrothed to Phillip of Brittany and Burgundy since she was just a child. We can’t reasonably expect Queen Anne to give up the chance to double the size of France simply for the jointure we would pay her for George. We’d never be able to compensate her for that. And the only other offer we’ve had for Mary is from the Sforzas of Milan. Do you really want your own sister to be married off to the son of a petty Duchess who’s in danger of being swallowed up by the French at any given moment? Really? When we could do so much better for her and make her Queen of Scotland?”

“I suppose not,” Anne conceded, “But I still don’t see why Mary can’t marry John and I marry James. I know either way we’re condemning Mary to marrying a man significantly older than her, but at least this way we get a united Albion out of it.”

“The Spanish are being remarkably hard-nosed about this. They insist on John’s bride being you, and with your mother not as secure on her throne as we would ideally like, we can’t afford to offend them.”

“She’s only insecure on her throne because she married you rather than James of Scotland, Papa. If she hadn’t done that, we wouldn’t be in this position. I would be in line for both thrones as it was.”

“It’s useless wishing things were different, sweetheart.”

“I know. But I still don’t think it’s fair. I’m suffering because Mother’s favouring George and Mary. She always has. I’ve never been good enough for her.”

“That’s not true. You’ve always been her firstborn girl, her precious Princess of Wales.”

“Yes, and I’ve been expected to be perfect while George and Mary are given everything they want and allowed to do what they want. I’m never going to do that to my children. I’m never going to favour one over the other.”

Anne turned away and buried her face in a silken pillow. Thomas reached over and put his arm around her shoulders.

“You’ve always been my girl, darling. The one who’s most like me. I’m so proud of you, and I will be even prouder if you marry John for the sake of your mother’s wishes. You needn’t stay married to him, you know. If he doesn’t give you children within five or six years, you can easily annul your marriage. The double marriage might actually help you there. Juana’s older, she and George will be expected to consummate their marriage earlier, which means you and John would technically be forbidden from doing so by degrees of affinity, unless the Spanish or your mother has thought ahead and applied for a dispensation. Plus, you’ll be under the age of consent when you take your vows. Both just technicalities, but they might become useful in a few years.”

Thomas knew the first half of his sentence was a lie, but what did it matter, truly? By the time Elizabeth was dead and Anne was on the throne she’d probably have a nursery full of daughters. The idea of annulling her marriage would never enter her pretty little head. What mattered in this precise moment was getting her to consent to the match in the first place. Anne rolled over towards him, dark eyes sparking with interest, “So you’re saying, go along with Mother’s plans now and then once I’m Queen...”

“Annul the marriage and marry whomever you see fit, darling. Who could stop you? If it was for the sake of the country, of course.”

“Of course,” Anne smirked, “Which it would be, Papa, I promise you that. From this day forward, everything I do will be for the sake of the country. Everything.”

Thomas felt a rush of pride as scheming filled his oldest daughter’s face and heart. She was such a Boleyn. He kissed the top of her head.

“Good girl. Your mother will be delighted to hear you’re being so sensible.”

With that, he slipped off the bed, bowed to her with a wink and left the room.

* * *

 

 “So you’re marrying John, not James? With no reason why?” Sybil asked later that night, when Anne had finally been allowed to dismiss the milksop and replace her with her favoured confidante again. Anne shrugged.

“It’s politics. It’s to do with my lady mother wanting to secure the best she can for my siblings as well as for me. Does it really matter? The point is, I’ll be getting the cultured Spaniard for my husband and this little lady,” her arm snaked out and pulled the seven year old Mary on to her lap, making the younger girl shriek in a mixture of shock and delight, “will have to make do with the boorish Scot.”

“How do you like that, Mary? Sybil asked and Mary scrunched up her nose in thought.

“I won’t have to leave home, will I?” she asked at last. Anne chuckled, nuzzling her golden-brown hair, “Of course not,” she lied comfortingly, “Girls are more important than boys, remember? James will have to come to you. And anyway, do you think I’d be Queen without you to be my Duchess of Gloucester?”

“Good,” Mary yawned, sleepiness catching up with her now that she was sat in front of the fire, where its warmth could envelop her, and with her trusted older sister’s arms snug round her waist, Will I have a new gown for when he comes?”

“Dozens,” Anne promised, “Dozens and dozens, in whatever colours you like.”

Mary drifted contentedly off to sleep and Sybil looked over her head at Anne, “Talking of dresses, what are you going to wear to receive Prince John?”

“Cloth of silver. Mother wants me in cloth of silver and George in russet and black velvet. She’s got it all planned out. Or at least she did when he was marrying Mary, so I don’t see why the plans should have changed just because I’m suddenly the bride-to-be and not her sister.”

Sybil raised an elegant shoulder in a half-shrug and then turned the conversation to something else, speaking in whispers so as not to wake the sleeping Mary. She could tell Anne was still struggling to wrap her mind around the day’s revelations. Pushing her now would only make her uncomfortable and Sybil had not become the Princess of Wales’s most favoured companion by making her uncomfortable. Not beyond a certain boundary, anyway. No. She would sit back on this one. Sit back, allow time to pass and wait for Anne to come to her.

 


	3. II - Black Bulls II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I might get another chapter out before the madness of Third Year starts again - enjoy!

**Chapter II**

_April 1502_

Banners bearing the silver Howard griffin, the golden English lioness and the bronze Boleyn falcon were flying everywhere as Prince John, his own black bull embroidered on his royal blue doublet and snapping above his head in the brisk breeze, rode into the grounds of Windsor Castle.

As he drew rein, he glanced up at the deep bay windows above his head. For an instant, he fancied he saw a shadow in one of them, but it was gone before he could be certain.

Anyway, he was being greeted by a bowing official, one speaking far more quickly for him to understand without concentrating exceedingly hard.

“Sir, “ he answered the man at last, straining to think of the correct English for what he wanted to say as he proffered his hand to be kissed before swinging himself down from the saddle, “Speak more slowly, please. My English is not good.”

He had to stop himself flushing as he spoke, but fortunately, the man before him looked just as shamefaced.

“Forgive me, Your Highness. I am Prince Edmund Howard, the Queen’s youngest brother and Lieutenant of Calais. I have been asked to escort you to your rooms to freshen up and then to the throne room to meet Her Majesty and Their Highnesses. Will you follow me?”

As nerves struck, John had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from cursing in Spanish. He hadn’t realised his presentation to his future bride would be quite so soon after he had arrived at Windsor. He wanted to refuse, wanted to have a bit longer to compose himself than the few minutes it would take to change and freshen up, but courtesy forbade him from doing so.

_“Still, it could be worse,_ ” he tried to reassure himself, _“At least you don’t have to meet her flushed with exertion and smelling of horses._ “ Drawing himself up, he gestured with a hand, “As you wish, Lord Lieutenant.”

He followed the older man through the corridors of the palace, only dimly aware of the curious, lingering glances of the English nobles as they parted before him.

* * *

Half an hour later, they were standing in front of the doors of the throne room. John thought he might throw up with nerves. His future bride was just on the other side of those doors. What was he going to think of her? More importantly, what was she going to think of him? She might be younger than him – barely nine to his almost fifteen – but John was under no illusions as to which of them held the power in their relationship. He had to please her. He had to please her and, when the time came, he had to father a legitimate girl on her.

The doors creaked open at Prince Edmund’s signal and John found he was gripping the pommel of his sword, the sword his father had given him the day he left, for strength. Taking a deep breath, he walked forward into the room as the herald began to announce him.

* * *

“His Highness Prince John of Castile and Aragón!”

As her mother rose from the dais at the herald’s words, Anne dipped down into a half-curtsy to let her past, lowering her head a fraction, as protocol demanded. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her go towards a tall young man.  Once she judged it safe, Anne straightened up and raked said young man with her sharp black eyes, taking in his pale skin, his height, his ruddy-brown hair. Well. So this was the Prince of Castile her mother expected her to marry. He was gangly and his hands kept twitching nervously, no matter how much he fought to keep them still.

“ _James would never have been so nervous,_ ” Anne thought scathingly, recalling the robust, glowing-cheeked boy with laughing dark blue eyes and chestnut hair who had chased her through the halls of Richmond Palace a year and a half earlier. He had been everything her seven year old heart had looked for in a Prince, even before they had become fast friends, whereas this young man looked more like a scholar than a warrior.

But she only let her disappointment flare in her eyes for a moment. By the time Mother was turning back towards her, her impassive mask was firmly back in place.

“My youngest daughter, the Duchess of Gloucester,” Mother gestured with a hand and Mary stepped forward, her honey-brown ringlets cascading neatly down her back. She held a jewelled dagger firmly between her tiny hands and now she reached up, extending it to John.

_“Welcome to England, Your Highness. I am pleased to meet you. This dagger is for you, as a token of the new-found friendship between our countries.”_

She’d been practising the speech for weeks. By rights, she should have been flawless. Yet whether through nerves or excitement, she wasn’t. Though she made it through the speech, her words were rushed and slurred and her accent sounded far more French than Spanish. When she finished, there was a silence that went on for a heartbeat too long to be comfortable. Anne inhaled sharply, willing somebody to do something, but not daring to break her own dignity to do so. And then Prince John knelt down beside her sister.

“Thank you, _preciosa,_ ” he smiled, “It is very fine. I will – will – look after it. I am very happy to meet you. May I kiss you? A brother to a sister?”

The words were hesitant and stumbling, delivered with a very strong Spanish accent, but the intent was sincere. Despite herself, Anne found the Castilian Prince rising a notch in her estimation as he kissed a beaming Mary gently on the cheek.

He greeted George far more briefly and then they were turning to her, she was dipping down into another half-curtsy and he was bowing over her hand as Mother said, “My eldest daughter, your bride-to-be, the Princess of Wales.”

“ _Su Alteza_ ,”he murmured, treating her far more formally than he had Mary, “You are pretty. I cannot wait to be your Lord of Wales. Maybe I write a poem about you.”

His softly-spoken words grated on Anne and he sank far lower and far faster in her estimation than he had ever risen. Her eyes snapped and she drew herself up to her full height, determined to make herself look as imposing as possible.

“You needn’t treat me like a child, sir,” she snarled, “I may be nearly six years your junior, but I assure you, I know my duty as well as you.”

_“How dare you patronise me like that? Do you not realise who will hold the power in our relationship?”_   was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back just in time as she saw her mother’s face darken. As usual, her older brother, newly-fourteen year old George, came to her rescue.

“It’s been a long day,” he said hastily, but peaceably, “We’re all tired, and John in particular, I imagine. Why don’t I take him back to his rooms and send for some supper that he can have in peace?”

The tension dissipated at his words and Mother nodded with relief.

“Yes, George. Do.”

Anne flashed her brother a grateful smile as the meeting broke up and he went past her.  He always rescued her when she spoke without thinking. What on earth was she going to do without him once he was in Spain?

* * *

“How can I marry him, Sybil?!  He treated me like a child!”

Sybil sighed inwardly. Anne had been ranting on this subject on and off for days. Knowing it was better not to interrupt, she simply started scrolling through her mental stock of responses that were suitably outraged to pacify the younger girl, listening with only half an ear as the latter continued to ramble, “He treated me like a child, fobbing me off with compliments like any other courtier while he as good as _told_ me he couldn’t wait to take the reins in Wales! I’ll be damned if I let that happen!”

“Anne! Your mother would have Lady Parr wash your mouth out with soap if she heard you talking like that!”

“I don’t care! If you’d heard him, offering to write poems for me as though I was supposed to be charmed by it, you wouldn’t care either!  He’s a show-off and full of himself and I hate him! I hate him! I wish I could marry James instead! Or any of the boys at Court. Any one of them would be better than that spoilt prig! At least they’d speak English!”

“He doesn’t speak English?!” Sybil forced herself to gasp in pretended shock. The first time she’d heard this, it genuinely had been a shock. Growing up in the royal schoolroom with the Prince and the Princess of Wales, she’d watched – and to an extent, shared their lessons – as they had been taught first French, then Latin and Spanish, and, in Anne’s case, Scots, Welsh and Greek as well. She’d always assumed that all Princes and Princesses were fluent in multiple languages, yet Anne had then told her that wasn’t the truth. But now she’d heard that for at least the tenth time and frankly, it was getting rather old.

 As per usual when they reached this part of the conversation, Anne grimaced, then chuckled sourly, “Oh you should have heard him. He was stumbling over his words, and when he did get them out, his accent was so thick, they were barely understandable. I’d have laughed if it hadn’t been my future husband. And George tells me his French and Latin are barely any better. How is he supposed to be a good husband to me if he can’t even speak my language?”

“Maybe he’ll learn,” Sybil repeated hopefully, but she still wasn’t so sure about that. Mama had always said that it was better to learn languages when you were younger. If John had got to fourteen and hadn’t learnt English, then maybe there wasn’t much hope of him ever learning it. Anne scoffed, as she had done every single other time they’d gone over this ground

Silence stretched between them as Sybil racked her brains for what to say, determined to take their chatter in a new direction this time. Like Anne, she too was waiting to be old enough to be wed, but she knew who she was marrying. The son of the Countess of Shrewsbury. She’d known him all her life; he’d been her mother’s ward and her father’s squire since before she’d come to join Anne at Court. And he spoke English. Her situation was nothing compared to Anne’s.

“But you have to get to know him,” she said at last, “You have to try, Anne. Otherwise, your married life is simply going to be miserable, and no one wants that for you.”

“Mother does,” Anne snapped, before sighing, “I know, Sybil. I promised Papa I’d marry him without a fuss and I will. It just doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Invite him to take a walk with you in the gardens,” Sybil suggested, “You might like him better if you’re not facing him with such a crowd around you. He might not be such a show-off away from other people.”

“And what exactly are we going to talk about, when he’s too stupid to be able to talk properly in any language but his own?”

“Anne, you speak Spanish. Don’t pretend you don’t!”

“I have no intention of telling him that. That would make it too easy for him. That’s no fun,” Anne pouted, before suddenly groaning. “Very well. If I must. Sarah, go and tell His Highness I wish to walk with him in the gardens.”

“That’s not the way to do it Anne,” Sybil admonished, “Go and invite him yourself. He’ll never know you mean it otherwise.”

“But I don’t mean it! I don’t care if he joins me or not.” Anne scowled. Sybil looked steadily at her, frowning, for a moment or two.  Suddenly, to Sybil’s surprise, Anne turned her head away.

“Fine. I’ll ask him myself. Happy now? But if you’re talking me into this, you’re jolly well coming too.”

* * *

John sat in his opulent rooms, musing over his meeting with his bride unhappily, as he had done so often in the past three days. He still didn’t understand where it had gone so wrong. It had all been going so well. The Queen had been pleasant. Princess Mary had been delightful and even Anne had curtsied to him. And then he’d been such a fool as to ruin it all by opening his mouth. Something he’d said had caused offence. He still didn’t know what it was. After all, what girl didn’t like being told she was pretty and that he wanted to write a poem for her? Yet Anne had flared up at him in the same way that Juana and Maria did when he annoyed them, so clearly, he’d said something wrong.

Prince George had tried to reassure him; had told him not to worry, that his sister had always been a proud little cat; that in a few days she’d be over it and it would be like none of this had ever been. And john had tried to believe him. He really had. But it had been three days and he’d had no word. Not even a glimpse of her, other than when she was surrounded by attendants. Their official marriage was in the morning, followed by the banquet in their honour. He’d hoped to have everything straightened out by then. But how could he do that, if he hadn’t seen her for long enough to do more than exchange a quick formal word in front of scores of attendants? It was hopeless!

John buried his face in his hands and groaned. His valet, Diego, glanced at him.

_“Are you all right, Su Alteza? Can I fetch you anything?”_

John was about to answer when there was a rap on the door. One of his other attendants crossed the room to open it and then returned, announcing, with a slight tinge of shock in his voice, “ _The Princess of Wales is here to see you, Su Alteza.”_

Startled, John leaped to his feet and sank into a deep bow to the young girl in front of him, “ _Su Alteza_ , I have honour – I mean – I am...”

“ _Prince John, please. Stop. I came to ask if you would walk with me in the gardens.”_

John’s head snapped up, unable to believe he was understanding the smooth French tripping off the tongue of the dark-haired girl in front of him, but he was. She really was standing there, in a copper-coloured gown that acted as a perfect foil to her ebony prettiness, which would clearly one day become full-blown beauty. Her hand was half-outstretched and, in his eagerness to please, John chose to ignore the way her eyes were sullen rather than warm or inviting.

He didn’t answer though. He didn’t dare speak in case he made even more of a fool of himself than botching his greeting already had. Instead, he simply clapped his hands for his cloak and offered her his arm. She hesitated, then took it.

They headed out into the gardens, a bevy of her companions trailing behind, and paced around in awkward silence for far longer than John had hoped they would.

“Thank you for helping Mary the other day,” Anne finally said stiffly.

John smiled, “I have sister the same age, _Alteza,_ it was not hard.”

“Highness. The English word is Highness,” Anne corrected quietly, barely keeping the sneer out of her voice.

“Yes, _Su..._ Highness,” John repeated meekly, sensing it was best just to do as Anne said. They walked on for a moment or two before Anne broke the silence again, this time lapsing into French, willing to make it ever so slightly easier for him to communicate with her because she was curious despite herself.

_“You have more than one sister? George only ever told me about Joanna.”_

“ _Three, Your Highness. Juana, Maria and Catalina.”_

_“You must miss them.”_

John nodded, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. It was hard to know he’d never see them again. Never again spar verbally with Juana, never again play duets or discuss the Scriptures with Maria, never ruffle Catalina’s hair again, or pick her up and spin her around.

_“Tell me about them.”_ Anne’s voice was suddenly surprisingly soft. John looked at her in surprise and she shrugged, trying to pretend she couldn’t care less whether he did or not.

_“You must miss them. And we are to be married tomorrow. I ought to know about you. Tell me about them.”_

 

 

 


	4. IV: Black Bulls III

**Chapter III**

The afternoon in the gardens did them both good. They were still far from friends, but they were at least no longer complete strangers to one another, which made their hand-fasting in the Chapel Royal less painful than it might otherwise have been.

Anne, resplendent in deep royal purple trimmed with ermine, tossed her head back slightly and echoed the words the man in front of her was reciting in a strong, clear voice, “I, Anne, by the Grace of God Princess of Wales, take thee, John, by the Grace of God Prince of Castile to be my lawful husband, to honour and cherish, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, from this day forward for all of my days until death do us part. Hereunto do I plight my troth, before all these witnesses.”

As she finished, John inclined his head in acknowledgement of her words, then took a deep breath, thanking his lucky stars they were exchanging the vows in Latin. At least he wouldn’t disgrace himself now.

“I, John, by the Grace of God Prince of Castile,  do hereby take thee, Anne, by the Grace of God Princess of Wales, to be my lawfully wedded wife. To honour and obey, cherish, defend and protect, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, from this day forward for all of my days until death do us part. Hereunto do I plight my troth, before all these witnesses.”

Sweeping her a deep bow as he finished, he leaned over and kissed her briefly. It was more a light brush of his lips against hers than anything, but it was enough to elicit the customary applause from the surrounding crowd of nobles. He offered her his arm and, tossing her raven hair back again, she took it, allowing him to lead her from the chapel.

Her hand was steady on his arm. Her thin little face was impassive. If he hadn’t felt the tiniest tremor in her fingertips as they brushed his sleeve, he’d never have known she was nervous. She had the poise of a woman twice her age.

Letting him lead her from the chapel was all she did, however. As soon as they reached the great hall of the Palace, she dropped his hand and went to dance with her brother Prince George, ignoring all the whispers she left in her wake. John hesitated, unsure what to do, but before he had a chance to think much further, the Duchess of Gloucester was at his side.

“Will you dance with me, brother?” she asked, curtsying charmingly to back up her invitation.

“I would be honoured, _preciosa_ ,” he told her, taking her hand and leading her to take her place in line behind her siblings. As he did so, he did his best to put the puzzle that was his wife out of his mind.

* * *

 

With Anne and John safely married, there was no longer any reason for George to delay his departure to Spain. The night before he was due to leave, John visited him in his rooms.

The two of them played Piquet for a while, before George broke the comfortable silence.

“Take care of my sister,” he begged. “She’s proud and impulsive, despite Mother’s best efforts. I keep worrying she’s going to get herself into serious difficulties one of these days, when I’m not around to smooth things over for her.”

John didn’t quite understand all of what George had just said, but the urgency in the other boy’s tone told him it was important. He nodded.

“I try,” he vowed, “I patient with her. It just difficult. We both need time.”

Yet again, he flushed at the state of his English, but George nodded solemnly, reaching out to clasp his forearm.

“Thank you, brother. That means a lot to me. And I will do the same, you know. I will look after Joanna.”

“You have to. Or Catalina hate you. She’s lioness in Juana’s defence. And our cousins duel you for Juana’s honour if you hurt her,” John looked George in the eye as he said this, willing him to see past the broken English and realise how important this was to him. The younger boy seemed to, for he nodded again, his usually laughing dark eyes grave.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

“Then I wish you Godspeed, brother,” John said, laying down the last of his cards and rising, “May I?” he asked, deferring to George’s elevated status as his host, if not by rank.

There was a pause before George understood, “Of course. I’d be honoured,” he replied at last. He knelt on the flagstoned floor and John placed a hand on his curly head, murmuring an old Castilian prayer of blessing.

_“Godspeed and God Bless, little brother. May you and Juana be very happy together. May the Lord make His countenance shine down upon you and give you peace.”_

Then he stepped back and gestured to George to rise. The two of them looked at one another for a few seconds before clasping one another heartily, newly joined by their mutual pact to look after each other’s sisters.

* * *

Anne had always known this day would come. The day when she’d have to see her brother off to a distant land to take up the mantle of Prince Consort of some foreign shore for the sake of England’s diplomatic relations. She’d always imagined that, when the day came, she’d be calm, gracious and composed, resigned to what would happen. She’d imagined embracing him, yes, but only briefly. She’d never imagined she’d be on the brink of tears.

Yet, as she stood hand in hand with Mary, watching George kneel for Mother’s blessing on the docks at Tilbury, she felt the tears rising. She bit the inside of her cheek to choke them back, determined not to cry in front of the entourage of nobles and commoners that had come to see her brother off. She was the Princess of Wales, for Heaven’s Sake! She couldn’t simply burst into tears at the slightest provocation!

In choking back her emotions, she also clenched her hands tight, forgetting for a moment that she still held Mary’s smaller one in hers.

A strangled whimper of pain recalled her to that fact and she forced herself to loosen her grip.

“Sorry,” she murmured, as Mary turned injured eyes on her.

Fortunately, before things could get even more out of hand, George rose to his feet and loped down the quay towards them.

He swept Mary up into his arms and kissed her, brushing her cheeks free of tears with the heel of his hand. He set her down again, whispering something too low for Anne to hear, and then turned to her.

“Is this it, Annabelle?” he whispered, too low for any but her own ears to hear, “Do I lose you now forever?”

“No, of course not! I’ll still be your Annabelle. You’ll come back and visit and everything will be just the way it always was.”

She said it determinedly, but they both knew she was lying. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears coming...and squealed in surprise as George pulled her off her feet into his arms.

“George! I’m not a child! I’m ten years old!”

However, the way she tightened her hold on him and buried her face in his shoulder belied her words almost instantly.

For a few moments, they stood like that, before George gently disentangled himself and inclined his head.

“Farewell, My Lady Princess,” he murmured.

“Farewell, brother. Serve us well,” Anne replied in kind, falling back on formality to hide her emotions and in so doing, to try to salvage what she could of her dignity.

“Of course. After all, a future Queen must have her knights,” George winked, bowed theatrically and then, before she had stopped laughing and trying to swat him with impatience despite her best intentions, sprang away and dashed up the gangplank to his ship.

It thudded shut behind him, his attendants already having boarded to give him the necessary privacy to say goodbye to his family.  The ropes began to be cast off. Anne watched the process dully, face blank. To an observer, in those few seconds, she might have been any insecure little girl suddenly bereft of her confidant, not a Princess.

A moment later, she had shaken herself and drawn herself up, every inch the heiress to the throne once more. She went over to her visibly distressed younger sister and soothed her tears, determined to get through the day without creating any more scandal for the gossipmongers to feed on.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Anne, however, John had been watching her say goodbye to George. He’d seen her shoulders slump as George had sprung away from her; seen what an effort it had cost her to put on an effective mask for her sister and the watching public. In that instant, he vowed to protect her. After all, as George had just said, a future Queen must have her knights. As her husband, surely it was up to him to be first among them, even if they hadn’t consummated the marriage yet?

Of course it was. And he’d protect her and her interests, until the day he died, no matter what it cost him. By the Virgin and all the Saints, he’d do it.

That thought in mind, he offered Anne his arm as she turned away from comforting her younger sister. Relief surged through him when she took it without so much as blinking. That, at least, was an improvement from the day they’d met.

 


	5. V: Black Bulls IV

**Chapter IV**

“Your Highness, you must approve your council when we reach Ludlow tonight,” William Herbert, Lord Consort of Pembroke and husband to the Princess of Wales’s newly-appointed Chamberlain, Maud Herbert, reined back his large bay stallion beside the Princess’s dapple-grey pony and leaned down from the saddle to speak to her.

The Princess, her ebony hair rippling like a silken ribbon in the breeze behind her, turned from where she was holding a bantering conversation with her new husband and gazed at him levelly.

“Must is not a word one uses to Princesses, Lord Pembroke,” she said coolly.

William fell back in the saddle a fraction. It was one thing to have heard tales of the Princess Anne’s poise, to have seen her act with decorum in public. It was quite another, he realised now, to have that cool self-confidence turned upon you with full force.

But then she laughed and the elegant half-grown lady visage melted away to be replaced by a precocious child who dimpled up at him charmingly. At the sight of her winning smile, he felt his heart soften. In that instant, he knew he’d die for her if she asked it of him. Die for her without a single qualm or question being asked.

“You need not worry, Sir William. My Lady Mother and Lady Parr have taught me well. I know my duty. Approving my council will be the first thing I do when we have bathed and dined. Have the list drawn up in readiness, won’t you?”

“Of course, My Lady Princess,” William bowed and fell back a pace or two, watching as the Princess turned effortlessly back to her husband, catching up a nosegay a smaller child had thrown to her earlier and demanding that he lean dangerously from his saddle and tuck it into her hair for her. She pouted when he wouldn’t, but chuckled again when he reached over and tugged a flyaway strand of hair playfully. They made a pretty picture, William decided, riding there at the head of the procession. John was being both solicitous and teasing by turns, which seemed to be making his little bride warm to him. Good. It seemed the young man had a shrewd head on his shoulders, if he could fall into whatever role his young bride wanted from him so easily. True, it was a shame his English wasn’t better than it was, but surely time would improve that.

Time and exposure to the language, which of course he would gather by serving on his young wife’s Council. Technically, William supposed he shouldn’t be assuming such things without the Princess’s approval, since she had to sanction every person on the Council herself before they could officially take up their positions. However, if she didn’t agree to give her husband a place on the council, he’d eat his hat. It would mean John of Castile being the first Consort of Wales not to have a place on the Welsh Council in at least a century and a half. Anne Howard didn’t strike him as the kind of girl who would want to rock the boat to that extent. William didn’t envision having any trouble getting her to approve her Council.

* * *

“My Ladies...as a mere girl of nine, I need your guidance,” Anne murmured, “Is it truly fitting for him to be serving on my Council?”

As she spoke, she gestured to the name at the top of the list, _John of Castile, Consort of Wales._

“Your Highness... where are your concerns? It is traditional that the Consort of Wales has an honoured place on the Welsh Council,” Henry Tudor, Lord Consort of March and Richmond, and temporarily serving in his wife Elizabeth’s stead since she was in childbed, chose his words with care, “It has been a century and a half since a Consort of Wales did not serve on the Welsh Council.”

“I realise that, My Lord of March,” Anne nodded, “And I am not talking about refusing Prince John a position on my Council permanently. I am merely asking if noble and intelligent Ladies and Lords Consort such as yourselves really consider allowing the Consort of Wales to wield more power than the Princess of Wales a suitable course of action. Surely it would be more fitting for us to assume our seats together?  Indeed, I believe that there is a precedent for such an occurrence. Is it not true that when Eleanor de Clare married at the age of nine, as I have done, neither she nor her husband had permanent seats on the Council until she reached fourteen? Would you not agree that now, as then, His Highness Prince John and I should wait to take up our seats on the Welsh Council simultaneously?”

As she finished, there was a chorus of agreement. The Princess was right. Of course that was a far more sensible way of going about things.  After all, none of them had really been all that comfortable with allowing a foreign Prince to wield more power than their own beloved Princess. How could they have forgotten about the arrangement made for Princess Eleanor and Charles of Navarre when they married at the same age Anne had now? And how clever of Her Highness to remind them. They hadn’t expected a nine year old girl to have such an astute grasp of the situation.

“Your Highness...Charles of Navarre was also underage when he married Eleanor de Clare. We have never had a situation where a Consort of Wales is of age while his bride is not. I realise it would be unorthodox, but perhaps, given the circumstances, it would be acceptable to allow Prince John to accept his seat now after all.” There was a lone voice dissenting from the chorus of ayes. Anne turned to the speaker, smiling winningly and half-curtsying.

“I appreciate your candour, My Lady. Perhaps you would even be right, if it wasn’t for the disadvantage that my poor husband is at with regards to his languages. I fear that, without a lot more instruction in either English or Welsh, he would not be able to follow the meetings without an interpreter present.”

“An interpreter? Preposterous! We can’t risk some foreigner reporting our every decision back to the Spanish Queen! No, Ladies, we must simply wait the extra years to give the Consort his seat. He needs to know our languages and our politics far better before he attempts to rule us!”

It was the Countess of Pembroke who spoke and Anne turned to her with a nod and a sudden blaze of a grateful smile.

“Thank you, Lady Pembroke. I am grateful to you for taking this most difficult of decisions out of my hands. I shall be only too glad to follow your most respected and sensible advice.”Anne favoured them all with another beaming smile, then pushed herself back from the table, “I bid you good night, Ladies, my Lord Consort.”

She swept to the door with the grace of a woman twice her age.

As it swung shut behind her, the nobles glanced at each other.

“Should we warn the Prince of the decision, do you think?”

The same lone voice who had protested against John’s exclusion from the council was raised again now. The other women in the room shook their heads.

“Don’t be absurd, Montague. It’s not our place to do that. The Princess will tell him when they dine together tonight.”

* * *

The first John heard of this decision was two crossed halberds barring his entry to the Council Chamber on the morning after their arrival in Ludlow. Two crossed halberds accompanied by a gruff, though not entirely unpitying, “I’m afraid you can’t come any further, My Lord. This is the official swearing in of the Council of Wales and nobody who hasn’t received an official invitation from Her Highness is to be allowed in.”

John blinked. Surely he must have misheard. Or there must have been a mistake of some sort. From what his mother had told him – and he’d never had cause to doubt her word before – it was traditional that the Consort of Wales was practically the head of the Welsh Council. Surely he couldn’t be being denied entrance even to the chamber?

“You mistake, My Lords,” he said carefully, trying to project an air of authority and knowing, with a not inconsiderable amount of shame, that his broken English was doing nothing to help his image, “I am Consort of Wales. I must be allowed to Council meeting. Let me pass.”

“It’s more than our jobs are worth, I’m afraid, Sir,” the taller of the guards, his arm still out to halt John’s progress, though he did stop just short of committing the potentially treasonable offence of physically restraining a Prince of the Blood, “Orders are that nobody who isn’t already in there is to be allowed in now.”

“Who? Who gave such order?” John spluttered, knowing deep inside what the answer must be even before it was given. There was only one person in Ludlow who had the authority to give such an order, after all.

“Why, My Lord, Her Highness the Princess of Wales, of course.”

Rage surged through John. How dare that spoiled child deny him what was rightfully his as her husband? He’d had it with her resentment, her constant rebuffs of his overtures. When would she realise that, as a Prince of Castile, he deserved more respect than she was according him? His mother was Isabella of Castile for Heaven’s sake! She’d taken control of her country on the battlefield, and doubled the size into the bargain, when she forced the Sultan of Granada to yield to her and seek refuge in the barbaric lands of North Africa. She’d raised John to be Consort of the greatest land in Christendom, never mind an out of the way backwater like England. He’d wager he’d learnt ten times more about ruling a country at Isabella of Castile’s knee than Elizabeth of England would ever be able to teach her daughter.

“I bid you good day, gentlemen.”

John’s voice was brittle with fury. He spun on his heel and stalked off, fuming. He wouldn’t give the Howard brat the satisfaction of seeing him beg on bended knee for a place in the room that should have been his by rights.  A Trastamara Prince did not beg. Especially not for favours from a girl who was five years his junior and whose bloodline was nowhere near as pure as his. He was born of monarchs on both sides; Anne Howard was merely the daughter of a love match between a Queen who couldn’t keep her legs shut and an Irish upstart of a Duke. Being civil to her in the face of her childish resentment was bad enough. What would his mother say if she knew he’d demeaned himself enough to beg favours off her?

Oh Lord. His mother! She was expecting him to be the most influential member of the Welsh Council, to be able to sway his young bride and her councillors towards courses of action that benefitted Spain. Yet his chit of a wife wouldn’t even let him in the room! How was he going to explain that to her?

In that instant, he decided he wouldn’t. After all, he was five years Anne’s senior. Once he confronted her with the unfairness of this situation, he was sure she’d soon see reason. And if she didn’t...well, he’d make her. It would all be sorted out soon enough, he was sure. There was no need for his mother to know how disastrously his marriage was going just at the moment.

That thought in mind, he shouted for his bow and strode out to the archery butts. Let Anne think she’d won for now. Let her have her precious first meeting without him and think she’d won. He’d deal with her when the moment came.

* * *

“You stop me having a place on the Council? You stop me?!”

The doors of Anne’s schoolroom slammed open as Prince John burst through them. His usually pale face was pomegranate with ire and he was quivering, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as though he would dearly love to throttle Anne, or at the very least shake her violently.

“Lord Wales! Is that any way to speak to your wife?!” Lady Parr was outraged on Anne’s behalf, but Anne, although she had leapt to her feet in shock when John walked in, merely turned to him calmly.

“Yes, I stopped you having a place on my Council, husband. Whatever made you think I was going to give you one in the first place?”

John had left his interpreter far behind him in his rush to find Anne, so all he could do was bluster, “I your husband! Your Consort!”

“I appreciate that. And you will get your chance, John, but not yet. My councillors felt, and I agreed with them, that it would be best if we waited to take our seats up together. After all, it would be most unusual situation, if the Consort of Wales was on the Welsh Council before the Princess of Wales was. And this has the added advantage of allowing you more time to improve your English and Welsh, so that when the time comes, you won’t need an interpreter to follow the meetings. It’ll make the councillors feel more comfortable. They’re always needlessly worried about foreign spies.” Anne smiled up at her husband and Lady Parr felt a rush of pride. How well her charge was dealing with such rank discourtesy.

 John picked out the words, ‘English’ and ‘Welsh’, but for the rest, he carried on as if his wife hadn’t even spoken, a necessary discourtesy, if he was going to get his point across.

_“My mother won her throne on a battlefield. She’s taught me more about ruling than your mother will ever know! How dare you throw away that level of experience?!”_ John had lapsed into Castilian, rage rendering him incoherent in English.

Anne flushed crimson before turning candle wax white with fury. “My mother rules her people with love, not fear! That’s a thousand times better than anything your tyrannical she-wolf of a mother will ever manage!”

By the time she had finished, her breath was coming in short, fast gasps. John hesitated, unsure what she’d said, but his translator, who had caught up to him by now, clearly uneasy, muttered into his ear. He flushed scarlet at the way she impinged on his mother’s honour. He leaped across the room in one bound and shook her by shoulders before he knew what he was doing.

_“Don’t you dare speak of my mother like that! At least I don’t lie to her!”_

“Lord Wales! Take your hands off the Princess!”

“Nor do I lie to mine!” Anne screamed, stung at the disparagement upon her honesty. Upon receiving the whispered translation of this, John arched an eyebrow.

“ _Really?,”_ he said sarcastically _, “Have you told her you’ve forbidden me a place on your Council, even though a hundred and fifty years of tradition says you must?”_

By now, Lady Parr’s shrieks of horror had brought the guards running. They seized John round the waist and pulled him away from Anne. He went with them unresistingly, eyes fixed to Anne’s thin little face.

 Anne fell silent, tiny fragile breast heaving, and John knew he had scored a point. For a moment, a rush of triumph filled him, but as she turned away, shoulders determinedly still, he realised what a horrific mistake he had made. Even if Anne had written to her mother, there was no way Elizabeth could have received the missive yet. They hadn’t even been in Ludlow a full twenty-four hours, and it had taken them a full fortnight to get there from Court. To think he had laid a hand on her in anger; had actually shaken her...

Horrorstruck, he stretched out a hand to her imploringly.

“Annabelle, I am sorry.  I only want help you. Let me rule -”

It was the wrong thing to say. She flung off his hand and whirled round to face him, dark eyes snapping.

“Rule! You want to rule Wales without me? Haven’t I already told you that never happens? And don’t you dare call me Annabelle again. Don’t you dare! Only my brother calls me that.”

John fell back from her, drawing himself up as his interpreter translated the y0unger girl’s ranting. How dare the brat spurn his apology? Castile was far more powerful than England! He spun on his heel, striding out without waiting to be dismissed.

Anne watched him go, young body rigid with fury. Sybil Brandon came up behind her, placing a hand on the top of her arm, “Anne?”

A slight shake of the raven head was all the response her query garnered.

“Your Highness! Are you all right?”

At Lady Parr’s words, Anne turned around and, to Sybil’s horror, she caught a glimpse of tears shining in Anne’s dark eyes. The argument with John must have shaken her more than she wanted to admit, for Anne never cried.

“I forgot to tell him, Lady Parr,” she sniffed, “I forgot to tell him, and now he’s angry with me.”

“What do you mean, you forgot to tell him?”

“I was going to tell him that my Council had suggested we wait and assume our seats on the Council together when I turn fourteen before this morning and I forgot. I meant to do it over dinner last night, but then he started talking about how he was so excited to start ruling Wales and exercising power and I just didn’t have the heart to tell him we wouldn’t be doing it for another five years. And I’ve had so much else on my mind what with moving from Eltham down here and getting used to the idea of Princess of Wales in more than just name, and...By the time I remembered I’d given the order to keep anyone who wasn’t on the Council out, no matter who they were, it was too late...I didn’t think it would matter, since it was just the swearing-in...I didn’t realise he’d get so angry...”

Anne trailed off, burying her face in her hands, and Lady Parr swept forward, gathering the tearful little girl into her arms.

“No, Your Highness, no. It’s not your fault. If anything, it’s mine. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind and as your governess, I should have reminded you to warn him. I didn’t. But I had no idea he’d act like that either. He had no right to speak to you like that over something so small. It worries me that he should be so power-hungry, when you’re just doing exactly what your Council see as sensible. He certainly shouldn’t have mishandled you like that. No true gentleman would ever treat a Princess so. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure to tell your mother about this. She’ll speak to him, or at the very least, get his mother to write to him, chastising him for his conduct. It’s not your fault. It’s not.”

Lady Parr rocked Anne in her arms, murmuring soothingly, as she had done countless times before when her young charge was upset. Once Anne was rather calmer, and her shoulders weren’t shuddering quite as much, she released and looked at Sybil.

“I trust you to look after her while I go and write to the Queen, Lady Sybil.”

Sybil nodded and Lady Parr left the room with a final reassuring pat to Anne’s back.

The door clicked shut behind her and Anne took that as her cue to speak again, although she pitched her voice so low that Sybil had to lean forward to hear her.

“What I said to Lady Parr was true. I would have given John a place on the Council when I turned fourteen, but I won’t be doing that now.”

“Anne?”

“I was testing him, Sybil. When we had dinner last night, he went on and on about how he wanted to rule, so I decided to keep him out of the swearing-in deliberately, just to see how he reacted. I was testing him and he has been found wanting. If he’d kept quiet about not having the place on the Council he expected, I would have been pleased. It would have meant he’d accepted that I must be the powerful one in our relationship. If he’d accepted that, I’d have been generous to him; treated him fairly. But now? Now I cannot trust him. And if I cannot trust him, then he cannot be my Consort.”

“He can’t?”

“No. A Queen needs her knights, Sybil, and her husband must be first among them. John has proven today that he will never be the gallant, everlastingly loyal knight I need him to be. Mother may have forced me into this marriage with John of Castile, but she can’t force me to stay married to him. Not from beyond the grave. I tell you this now; John of Castile will never rule England as my Consort. The moment I ascend the throne, I will petition the Pope for an annulment.”

“Even if you already have a daughter by then?” Sybil couldn’t help the question. Anne turned to her and her eyes were like embers burning with danger as she nodded.

 “Even if we have a daughter.”

* * *

_“My dearest Lady Mother,_

_I have no doubt that, by now, whispers will have reached you that I have forbidden my husband Prince John from taking up a seat on my Welsh Council. Those rumours scurrilously twist the facts. It is true that John has been refused a place on the Welsh Council. However, those who tell you that this is because I have no intention of sharing my power with him at all are mendacious fools who simply don’t understand. Let me assure you that John has been refused a seat on the Council only because my Councillors wished it so. They feared that to allow him to have a seat on the Council when I will not assume mine for another five years would send the wrong message to the common people; that it would suggest to them that it is Spain who rules Wales rather than Your Majesty. Moreover, the noble ladies of the Welsh Council worry that his lack of English and Welsh would be an unassailable obstacle to his discharge of his duties, though they do admit that this is at least only a temporary state of affairs.  Fear not, my Lady Mother, John will have an appropriate place on my Council once I have turned fourteen. In the meantime, he will continue to be shown the respect due to him as my husband._

_I feel sure Your Majesty will agree that this is an eminently sensible solution to the current tensions at Ludlow. After all, would it not be scandalous for the Consort of Wales to have a seat on the Welsh Council before the Princess of Wales herself? Besides, this measure has the added advantage that it will allow my husband to improve his knowledge of both English and Welsh and to garner a wider knowledge of English politics before he is expected to rule England alongside me._

_Unfortunately, in the heat of everything else that surrounded our move to Ludlow, I forgot to inform John of my Council’s decision. It is an omission I now bitterly regret, for he stormed into my schoolroom after the swearing in and took me to task over it. Lady Parr no doubt informed you that I lost my temper with him, and I apologise for having done so, but I assure Your Majesty that I had my reasons. Not only did he physically shake me, but he also did something that is, as far as I am concerned, a thousand times worse. He insulted Your Majesty’s capability to rule and implied that his mother was a far better Queen than you would ever be. I could not stand by and listen as he insulted you, Mother. I felt honour bound to defend you as the wonderful Queen I know you are._

_I hope this explanation of the matter sets Your Grace’s mind at rest. If for any reason, Your Grace sees fit to instruct me to allow Prince John to take up his seat on the Welsh Council with immediate effect, I will of course do so, for I remain, as ever, Your Majesty’s humbly loyal and obedient daughter,_

_Anne, Princess of Wales_

Elizabeth sighed, and replaced the letter her daughter had sent her on the edge of her writing desk. What to do? As she perused the matter inwardly, she chewed the inside of her cheek almost imperceptibly.

This quarrel of Anne and John’s was a confusing matter, not least because of the role reversal it suggested. From what Elizabeth remembered of watching them together at Windsor, Anne had been the sullen one and John the one who had been reaching out to his reluctant bride. Yet this letter painted Anne as the long-suffering one. If it had come alone, Elizabeth would have had its doubts about its veracity. But Lady Parr had written as well, and she had gone into more details about their schoolroom quarrel, details that proved that John had been the first to lose his temper, rather than her quick-tempered daughter. That John had been the one to resort to violence.

Elizabeth had never had cause to doubt Lady Parr’s word before. However, there could be no doubt that the reports of the quarrel that would be making their way to Spain even now would paint a rather different picture. The Spaniards at Ludlow would be writing to Isabella to assure her that her son had not acted without due justification, that he had been goaded into mistreating her daughter in such a manner, most likely by constant disrespect.

Should she write to Anne and order her to allow John to assume his place on the Council ahead of her, if only to appease the Spanish?

The thought crossed her mind, but she dismissed it almost at once. If she was honest, the amount of emphasis Lady Parr had placed on John’s obvious desire for power had worried her. He was meant to be Anne’s Consort, not a reigning monarch in his own right. It would do him good to remember that, by the sounds of things. Besides, Anne was nine. Even if she wouldn’t be taking up the reins of any real power in Ludlow for four or five years yet, she had reached the age where her wishes had to be respected to a certain degree. Thus, undermining her decision about John’s seat on the Council was impossible, especially if she was backed by the Welsh Council. Elizabeth wished she’d remembered to warn John prior to the swearing-in, but it was an understandable lapse, given how much she’d had to cope with recently. Given the circumstances, John shouldn’t have acted as badly as he did. Yet, he had to be conciliated to a certain degree, even if it was only so that the Spaniards wouldn’t hold this quarrel against George while he was trying to find his feet as the Consort of Asturias. Perhaps she should put it like that to Anne, that she’d be helping her brother if she reached out in friendship to John now. Otherwise Elizabeth didn’t think her proud little daughter would be willing to do so. To a certain extent, if Lady Parr’s account was true, Elizabeth would understand her reluctance. Unfortunately, on this occasion, it would be necessary. The double marriage had gone ahead, but Anglo-Spanish relations were still not as cordial as she might have hoped. News of this quarrel might sour things almost to the point of irreparability, unless some damage limitation was undertaken on Anne’s part. A new horse or sword belt, or perhaps a religious text, given John’s passions, would go a long way to smoothing things over between them and thus making things easier for George in Oviedo too.

Allowing another sigh of resignation to escape her lips, Elizabeth pulled a fresh sheet of parchment towards her. She dipped the nib of her quill in a full inkwell and began to write.

_My beloved daughter,_

_Your assumptions that I had already had wind of the situation in Ludlow were correct. I cannot, in truth, claim to be entirely happy about the measures that have had to be taken to restore peace in your household, but I believe you have handled it well, as I believe a future Queen would._

_You need not worry that I will ask you to allow John his seat on the Council ahead of you, for your councillors are right, it would be most unusual for the Consort of Wales to be able to vote on matters in Wales before the Princess herself. However, I would ask that, in future, you remember that John is the son of an extremely powerful Queen._

_Perhaps you could organise a conciliatory gift for him? After all, it would be a shame if you started to resent one another so soon into your marriage. A marriage should be a happy partnership, not a seedbed for quarrels. Remember, it is not fitting for a Queen to bear a grudge, especially not one that reaches back into childhood. Moreover, darling, a letter with a rather different explanation than the one you and Lady Parr have given me will be making its way to Castile even now, and a gift for John now would make you out to be the merciful one. Painting yourself in that light would serve George’s interests too, for it would mean that the Spanish would be less likely to take their resentments over your quarrel with John out on him._

_I pray you will think on what I have said, daughter. May God’s blessing be on you and on your marriage to John as well._

_E.R._

 


	6. VI: Black Bulls V

**Chapter V**

“Did you hear about the argument the Princess of Wales had with her Consort? He wanted her to make him head of the Welsh Council. When she tried to stop him, he threw her to the ground and kicked her.”

“Really? I heard he went for her with a riding crop. And then threatened to beat all her attendants as well, if she didn’t give in to him.”

“No! Poor girl. Surely she surrendered the Council to him after that, if only for the sake of keeping her household safe?”

“No, bless her, she didn’t. She’s got her father’s strength, thank Heaven.”

“You mean she’s still resisting him? After all this time?”

“She is. _She_ , at least, knows the importance of keeping England safe from Spanish influence. She hasn’t let Prince John anywhere near the Council Chamber yet, never mind made him head of the Council. Thank God the Queen had enough sense not to overrule her, even if it is only for the sake of pretending unity.  If she’s left to her own devices, Her Highness has the strength she needs to keep him out of her affairs. She’ll do it even if it costs her her life.”

“You don’t think...he wouldn’t! Not when he knows what an incident it would cause.”

“Who knows? That’s the trouble with these Spaniards. They’re so damned cocksure of themselves, they think they can get away with anything. I wouldn’t put it past the Consort to try to make the Princess’s death look like an accident. Then all it would take would be the Spanish Ambassador browbeating the Queen into allowing the Prince to marry the Duchess of Gloucester instead and he’d have himself a far more tractable bride. She’s a sweet lass, but...”

“But they couldn’t do that! The Pope would never allow it; she’d never issue that kind of dispensation! Not if there was even the slightest whisper that the Prince had anything at all to do with the Princess’s death!”

“Don’t be a fool! You don’t think even the peacock Prince of Castile would be foolish enough to have anything to have anything to do with it, do you? No, no, he’d be careful to come out of the scandal looking whiter than freshly-fallen snow and well,” Here the speaker dropped their voice so low that the one trying to listen in had to lean so far forward out of the gallery that he risked discovery, “We all know Her Majesty is so desperate for this Spanish alliance that she’ll do anything to keep it alive. I wouldn’t be surprised if -”

The conversing pair turned the corner and William Butler, a distant cousin of the Prince Consort and his most devoted retainer nearly fell out of his niche on the gallery above in relief. For several moments, he had feared he was going to have to follow those ladies before they said anything interesting. That hadn’t, fortunately, been the case – in fact, those last few words might easily be construed as treason; speaking against the Queen in such a manner that suggested she might even allow her own daughter’s widower to marry the little Duchess of Gloucester, even if he had been complicit in the Princess of Wales’s death like that...well, Lady Welles really ought to learn to guard her tongue, it wasn’t safe for her to be slandering their sovereign that openly. Nonetheless, he had to be grateful to her for her indiscretion tonight. Her conversation with her sister the Countess of Rutland had only confirmed his already heightened perceptions. The Court was seething with indignation at the rumours of the Princess of Wales’s marital troubles; resenting the fact that their future Queen had been rushed into marriage years before she could even hope to have flowered in order to appease the Spanish; that a girl of nine seemed to care more for England’s independence than her own Queen; a woman many of them had fought and schemed to keep on her rightful throne in the wake of her ill-advised love match to the brother of a minor Irish noblewoman instead of the Prince of Scotland her mother, the late Queen Anne had always intended her to wed. They saw this over eagerness to match with Spain, at whatever cost, as a poor return for the years of loyalty they had given Elizabeth Howard. Indeed, many of them were even muttering about deserting the Windsor Court and riding for the Welsh one, pledging their loyalty to the future while the present still lived and breathed.  If that happened, then England would be riven by resentment, if not outright hostility.

A divided country was never a safe one. And the only man who could possibly hold it together now; the only one who had enough influence over both those who circled the Queen and the Princess herself; the only one who might be able to prevent the girl from having her head turned by the whispered suggestions and promises of courtiers disaffected with her mother’s rule, was the man who was fiercely loyal to them both. Husband to one and father to the other, the Prince Consort would surely never want to see his wife and daughter set against one another. He would want to know exactly how deep the divisions and rumours within his wife’s Court ran.

William turned and hurried down the gallery stairs towards his cousin’s rooms.

* * *

 

Thomas was just finishing dinner when there was a commotion in his innermost rooms. Raising an eyebrow, he sent the newest page scurrying out to investigate without so much as saying anything. When she came back in to tell him that William, his cousin, boyhood friend and now most useful purveyor of information, was outside, he nodded, pushed his plate away and rose, wiping his mouth on a scrap of linen as he did so.

“Have him conveyed into my bedchamber, make sure there is a jug of ale to hand and then close the door after us, Sarah,” he requested. She nodded, bobbed a slight curtsy and vanished once more.

Thomas, meanwhile, sauntered into his bedchamber, trying not to show any undue alarm. He and Elizabeth had the kind of relationship that meant it was his job to discreetly monitor the mood of the Court and alert her if he needed to, whilst she managed the more intricate details of international diplomacy. Ordinarily it was a task he relished, but the mood at Court had been unusually sour for days, ever since the first rumours of John’s discourtesy towards Anne had begun to reach London and, since Thomas himself found it hard to fathom quite why his wife was so hell-bent on her current policy of appeasing the Spanish, he was finding it harder and harder to muster the energy to listen to William’s reports.

Nonetheless, he let William see none of this on his face, turning to him with a pleasant smile and clapping him heartily on the back.

“William. Would you care for ale?”

“Please,” The other man nodded gratefully, accepting both the tankard and the silent proffering of an empty seat. Slumping down, he sighed, “It makes for ugly telling, I warn you, Your Grace.”

“Go on,” Thomas urged, an edge to his voice.

“I overheard Lady Rutland and Lady Welles just now. Lady Welles was saying she had heard rumours that the Prince of Castile had beaten Her Highness with a riding crop to force her to make him head of the Welsh Council; had had no qualms about threatening members of her household to try to achieve his ends.”

William paused, watching his cousin’s face, trying to gauge his reaction.

It was impossible. Thomas sat listening to his report with a face as impassive as granite. At last, after several moments’ hesitation, William went on, “Lady Welles even made so bold as to suggest that she thinks the Spanish might try to wangle the Prince a more tractable bride.”

For a few moments, Thomas remained unmoving. Then sudden comprehension came and he vaulted to his feet.

“By the Virgin! Who would believe such hogwash? Not even a Spaniard would be so reckless as to try to murder my daughter at her very own Court!”

“Nonetheless, it is what some people believe. Lady Welles isn’t the only one I’ve heard hint at such rumours. Lord Brandon was talking only last night of riding to Ludlow to protect the Princess and his sister, the Lady Sybil.”

“Gallant young fool,” Thomas scoffed, “What does he think a thirteen year old boy can do against the might of Spain?”

“Naught, of course. But if he is thinking like that, then what’s to stop others thinking along the same lines? I warn you, cousin, if the Queen doesn’t take care, she’ll find herself ruling a fragmented Court. That is, if she keeps ruling at all.”

“Anne’s a good girl.  A sensible one. She knows better than to let herself be manipulated into rebelling against her mother.”

However, although Thomas protested, inwardly, he wasn’t quite so sure. Anne was only nine, after all, and Elizabeth put her under such pressure. She favoured George and Mary so openly. Any child would come to resent it, never mind one as quick-witted as Anne. This was only worsened by the fact that Elizabeth never showed anyone her reasoning unless she was forced to it. No. Little though he liked it, he was going to have to be pragmatic enough to see how it might be possible for Anne, angry and resentful over the loss of her chance to be Queen of a united Britain and the Spanish match that had been forced on her, to be persuaded to act as a figurehead for anyone disaffected with her mother’s rule. The risk was doubly great now that John had been such a fool as to treat her badly.

 _“Why didn’t Elizabeth hold out for the Scottish match? We could have been contemplating a future Albion now, not facing the possibility – however remote – of our daughter rising against us if given enough provocation,”_ He snarled in his innermost thoughts. Outwardly, however, the only concession he allowed himself to his anger was a lightly clenched fist and a slight note of tension in his voice.

Realising what Thomas thought he meant, William shook his head.

“I’m not talking of outright rebellion, Thomas. All I’m talking about for now is that they’re riding to Ludlow to pledge their allegiance to Anne, rather than Elizabeth.  But you know your history as well as I do. You have to be aware that the last time this happened; the last time courtiers were leaving the Queen’s court in droves to pay court to the heiress, Queen Isabella de Clare was assassinated less than two months later. Now, her niece Agnes was sixteen at the time, not nine, so don’t think I’m saying this is at all likely, that the nobles will try to hasten Anne’s accession in any way, but surely Her Majesty has to see that she can’t afford to alienate her supporters as much as she is?”

Thomas sighed, “If only she’d learn to be more open with everyone about her thinking”, he muttered to himself, before pushing himself to his feet, “Thank you, Will. I shall be sure to inform Her Majesty of what you have told me,” he said briskly, clapping his oldest friend on the shoulder and slipping him a small velvet pouch of coins as he did so.

“ _For greasing more tongues,”_ he breathed in the Gaelic they had both learnt as children. William nodded, bowed and left. Thomas stood for a moment watching him go, his quick brain already whirling as it wrestled with the issue of how best to approach Elizabeth with his new-found knowledge.

* * *

In the event, she did it for him. It was one of the nights of the week where they customarily shared a bed – though the passionate desire of their early years together had gone out of their union, they still shared a bed a couple of nights a week at least, to keep the Court from gossiping – and so he made sure to appear at Elizabeth’s door as her maids were readying her for bed.

“My Lady,” he bowed, grazing the back of her hand with his lips. Elizabeth half-smiled at him, took the brush out of her maid’s hand and dismissed the attendants without even looking at them.

The silence hung heavy between the two of them as the women filed out, but became more comfortable once they were alone. They’d never been good at acting naturally with one another in front of witnesses.

Elizabeth turned back to the mirror, pulling the brush through her hair languidly.

“Have you heard from Anne recently?” she asked conversationally, “Have things settled at Ludlow?”

“No, they haven’t, as you very well know,” Thomas sighed, “John is furious for not yielding over the matter of the Council. He’s not troubling to hide his displeasure. Apparently, he threatened both her and Lady Sybil with a riding crop in the schoolroom.”

This last was a lie, but Thomas said it anyway, keeping his voice low and coaxing, as though he were talking to Anne and not Elizabeth. His wife and eldest daughter were really quite similar, he mused, as he did so. Appeal to their family loyalties; let them think that one of their loved ones was in danger and they were like lionesses in their defence. He was expecting Elizabeth’s maternal instincts, so strong when it came to their younger daughter, to flare at the merest hint that their older daughter was unhappy in her marriage. Yet she surprised him.

“Don’t be absurd. If Anne’s told you that, it was a blatant exaggeration to get you to empathise with her. I’ve heard from Lady Parr. There was never a riding crop in sight. Nor was Lady Sybil ever in any danger.”

“It’s what half the Court believes happened. Elizabeth, please. You have to do something. You know how popular Anne is with the Court and the people. If the nobles think she’s unhappy in her marriage, they’ll never forgive you. Do you really want to be ruling over a Court where your nobles resent you for your treatment of your own daughter? Of their future Queen?”

“I’ve written to Anne, asking her to find a gift for John to smooth things over. By the time they come back to Court for Michelmas, this will all be forgotten. Help me off with this robe, will you?”

Elizabeth stood and turned her back so that Thomas could reach her laces, but he froze like a statue, too stunned by what he had just heard to move.

“You’ve done what?” he spluttered at last, “Asked her to conciliate John when he’s the one who assaulted her? She’ll never forgive you!”

“We need the Spanish alliance. She can’t afford to be a child over this. I’ve reminded her that her pleasantry with John can only help George in Oviedo. She’ll do as I ask.”

Thomas stared at his wife, unfamiliar rage surging through him in the face of her complacency.

“My God, Elizabeth, Anne is a child! She’s nine years old! You cannot seriously be thinking of making her play the Ambassador for her brother’s interests? If anything, it should be the other way around. George will be fourteen this October; he’s quite old enough to defend himself in Oviedo without having to hide behind his little sister! Does nothing matter to you except that damned Spanish alliance? You’ve conceded far more to another nation than any other Queen before you, wasted two of our diplomatic pawns on them, offended the Scots, broken your own daughter’s heart -”

“As you’ve just pointed out, Anne’s nine years old! I doubt she even knows what her heart wants!”

“That’s not the point! You brought her up to believe that she’d be Queen of both England and Scotland, then ripped that away from her without any warning! Now you’ve shipped her off to Wales with a boy she barely knows and clearly doesn’t like, while her sister stays here, feted as the future Queen of Scotland, a role she’s always believed was to be hers!  You should never have let Isabella browbeat you into giving her Anne instead of Mary. I told you that!”

“And I told you that Isabella would never have stood for that! We would have lost the Spanish match for George as well!”

“That’s not what your Council thought and you know it. Half of them, at least, thought Isabella would have given in, in the end, if you’d only stood firm. They see you as weak, Elizabeth; as a woman who can’t be trusted not to let her maternal instincts come before the duties of a Queen. Do you really want that?”

“And what if they’d been wrong? What if she hadn’t? What if George’s betrothal to Joanna had fallen through?”

“I would have told you to damn the Spanish alliance, as would the other half of your Council, and you know it! Anne’s future as a Queen twice over was far too important to jeopardise, never mind throw away altogether! And even if I did approve of Anne marrying John, the little peacock doesn’t deserve to have any power at all, never mind a seat on Anne’s Welsh Council before she’s even of age. I’m proud of her for refusing and you should be too. Do you hear me? You ought to be proud of her, not telling her to make peace with the lad!  In fact, he shouldn’t be with her in Ludlow at all! He should be here at Court, or buried somewhere in the country, learning to become an English gentlemen, like I had to in order to be accepted by your nobles. Forcing them together, when he was still stuffed full of Spanish pride and Anne was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that she wouldn’t be marrying James anymore? That was just asking for trouble. You should have sent her to Ludlow alone; given her a chance to accustom herself to the way things would be now. Christ, I’m not surprised she and John are having trouble, if this is the way you’ve handled their marriage thus far!”

“I’ve made both of our daughters Queens!  George’s daughter will be a Queen! Queen of both Castile and Aragon! How can you challenge me for wanting the best possible futures for all three of our children, not just one? How can you?! Would you have me make George and Mary accept lesser matches than they deserve, just to pander to your blatant favouring of Anne? To your over-inflated sense of what she has a right to? She should be delighted to know that her sister will be a Queen. Instead, you’ve spoiled her to the point that she’s too selfish to care for anyone but herself!” Elizabeth was screaming at him now, rage flaring in her blue-green eyes.

“Oh you’ve made both our daughters Queens now, have you? Have you really? Only if the Scots don’t decide to punish us for fobbing them off with Mary instead of Anne. Or do you intend to bankrupt England to pay Mary’s dowry, is that it? Do you intend to bribe them into accepting Mary as Queen instead of Anne, because you know in your heart that you should have let them have Anne; have let Anne and James unite England and Scotland, the way you’ve brought Anne up to believe they would!”

“That won’t be necessary. They wouldn’t dare challenge me. My brother would crush them into oblivion if they dared renege on our treaty now.”

“You just keep telling yourself that, Elizabeth. You just keep telling yourself that,” Thomas hissed at her, fury too fierce to take protocol or even common courtesy into account. Gradually, his rage simmered down into an ice-cold fury, the like of which he had never felt before. So strong were his emotions that it took him several seconds to realise that his upper lip had curled back into a sneer as he continued, “Of course, you might yet decide to throw over the idea of the Scottish alliance altogether and waste Mary on the Spanish as well. Indeed, some say, you’re so desperate to climb into bed with Isabella of Castile that you’d let John marry Mary to garner himself a more tractable bride, even if one of his household killed Anne to make it possible!”

Elizabeth’s hand came up involuntarily. The two of them stared at one another in horror, anger pulsing the air between them like some sort of malevolent creature.

Thomas began to fall to his knees, “Your Grace...”

“Get out.” Her voice was deathly quiet. “Get out.”

There was nothing Thomas could say.  Knowing he had far overstepped the mark, he dropped down into the deepest bow it was possible to make and held it for several seconds longer than necessary. Then he moved to the door, pausing only to say, with honest regret lacing his every syllable, “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I spoke only as boldly as I did out of love for our daughter.”

“I realise that, Lord Ormonde. But since I can no longer trust you to help the Princess of Wales reconcile herself to her husband, I think it is probably best if you cease to have any contact with her at all for the time being. Good night to you.”

Thomas froze in horror, but Elizabeth said nothing further, only signalled to the guard who stood behind him with a jerk of her head. He reached around Thomas to shut the door, cutting off his sight of his wife, and with it, any chance to plead with her for clemency, as the heavy oak thudded to with a defining ‘click’.

* * *

“Anne,” Elizabeth Stafford whispered, leaning over towards her friend as soon as their governess left the room, keeping her voice low enough that she couldn’t be overheard, “Anne!”

Anne turned her head, “What is it, Eliza?”

“I have something for you. It was tucked into a letter from my uncle Humphrey.”

Anne raised an eyebrow inquiringly. Eliza glanced around to make sure Lady Parr hadn’t slipped back into the room, that they were indeed alone except for Sybil, Susanna de La Pole and Meg Percy, and then mouthed “It’s from your father.”

Now real surprise showed on Anne’s face, “Papa?” she whispered delightedly.

Eliza nodded. “I don’t know why he’s writing to you through Humphrey rather than directly, but it’s definitely from him. The seal’s got the Boleyn falcon on and everything.”

Anne almost sprang to her feet in her impatience, but just then, Lady Parr came back into the room. Instantly, Anne schooled her features to show nothing but polite attentiveness, even as she hissed, “Later,” at Eliza out of the corner of her mouth.

Once their lessons were over, Anne sent Meg, Susan and Sybil out to the gardens ahead of them and linked her arm through Eliza’s.

“Show me,” she breathed, relieved when Eliza offered no protest. She didn’t think she could have borne it if she had. Papa hadn’t written in weeks; he was never usually this lax a correspondent, and now he was writing to her through Eliza rather than directly? What was going on? Her already keen mind was now heightened by curiosity. Even though she was trying to suppress her excitement, she couldn’t help almost dragging the older girl along behind her.

Half-chuckling, Eliza indulged her need for haste, waiting no longer than it took to close the door to the bedroom she shared with Sybil when it wasn’t her turn to share Anne’s to delve under her mattress and retrieve a thin wedge of parchment.

“Here,” she handed it over, truly laughing at Anne’s eagerness as the younger girl, usually the very picture of collectedness, practically snatched it out of her hand.

“Sit down here and I’ll keep watch till you’ve finished reading it. If your father wrote to you through me, then we don’t want Lady Parr finding this.”

Anne nodded distractedly, sharp black eyes already scanning her beloved father’s all-too-familiar handwriting.

_To my darling daughter, the Princess of Wales,_

_First, let me apologise for not replying to your last letter sooner than this and to explain away my unaccustomed silence, which I am sure must have made you curious.  Strange as it may seem, I had to wait until Lord Humphrey was writing to his niece, Lady Elizabeth, before I could put pen to paper to write a few lines which he could include in his little packet._

_Before you ask why I had to wait, let me tell you myself: I have, due to a disagreement I recently had with your esteemed mother, been forbidden from writing to you directly.  As such, rapid response to your recent letters has been impossible, for which I humbly apologise._

_Rest assured, however, that, no matter how long it takes me to respond to any letters you may send, I am forever working in your interests, especially when it comes to your recent change in marital status. I know your mother wishes you to settle down and become accustomed to how things are now, but I feel you ought to stay true to yourself, daughter, and to the Boleyn spirit. Nothing would make me prouder. I only ask that you do your best not to openly antagonise the Queen in the process._

_As part of staying true to yourself, please do not fret over me and our lack of open contact. After all, you know how your mother is. Her temper flares, especially when she has been forced to contemplate an uncomfortable truth, but it also cools quickly. I am sure we shall be regular correspondents again before too long._

_In the meanwhile, greet your companions for me and tell Lady Elizabeth to be on the lookout for more letters from her Uncle. I feel certain he will be taking a keen interest in her welfare over the coming months._

_My blessings and prayers are with you, always,_

_Your loving father,_

_Lord Thomas of England and Ormonde_

Anne was silent for a long time after she finished reading. Eliza watched her concern for the younger girl growing as she ducked her head, blinking furiously.

“Anne?” she prompted at last.

“The Queen’s forbidden Papa from writing to me because he won’t support her in her love for my Spanish marriage.” Anne’s voice was bleak, hollow. The eyes she turned on Eliza were devoid of their characteristic spark. “He says he’s going to try to write to me through you and your uncle, if you don’t mind.”

“Why would we mind a thing like that? You have our loyalty, you know that.” Eliza came over to the bed, crouched down beside it and squeezed Anne’s hand, concern blossoming into full-blown alarm as she realised the slight hand she held in hers was trembling, “We’ll not give you away,” she vowed, biting back the curses she could have poured on Elizabeth Howard’s head for putting her daughter through this; for making her little girl a pawn in her quarrels with her husband. Anne’s emotional state seemed fragile enough as it was without hearing her mother being vilified into the bargain.

It took a moment or two, but Anne nodded shakily, summoning the energy to smile.

“Thank you, Eliza. You know, they say the friends you find you have when you’re in trouble are the ones you can trust the most. Just now, I’m inclined to think that might be true.”

Eliza didn’t know what to say. She’d never heard the nine year old say something that solemn, that grown up. At last, she merely squeezed Anne’s hand again.

“Would you do something for me?”

“Of course.”

“Would you tell Lady Parr I’ve got a headache and I’ve gone to lie down for a while? That I don’t want to be disturbed?”

Eliza shot Anne a sharp look; the younger girl was never sick. Then it came to her; she merely wanted time to think, maybe even compose a reply to her father.

“You may count on it. I’ll go and play some ball with Meg and the others and tell her on my way out. When we get back in, I’ll see about writing to Uncle Humphrey again. He must be wondering how I am to write so eagerly.”

She winked at Anne, who somehow managed to muster a chuckle, before rising to her feet and pulling the other girl with her. “You’d better rest in your own room, or there’ll be all sorts of awkward questions asked.”

She escorted Anne back to her own door. Anne put her hand on the handle and then looked back at her.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Eliza promised, sinking down into a deep curtsy, “Sleep well, Your Highness.”

Anne’s mouth twitched and she nodded in acknowledgement, before she slipped into her bedroom and Eliza hurried off to catch up with the other girls, hugging the warm fact of being trusted with such an important secret to her like the comfort of a fur-lined wrap on a snowy winter’s day.

 

 


	7. VII: Black Bulls VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally remembered to update this - you're getting a double upload to catch you up to my FFNet readers and then I'm afraid I'm back off on hiatus until my uni commitments are over - but I will be back to this in the summer, I promise!

**Chapter VI**

_1507_

The doors of John’s apartments swung open as Anne, a full retinue of ladies scurrying behind her and a herald proclaiming her entry, swept into the room, her dark head held high with pride.

“Husband,” she greeted, holding out her hand for John to bow before and kiss. He did so, murmuring, “Your Highness,” as he straightened.

Some might have been surprised to see such formality between a handsome young man and pretty young girl of similar rank, but for Anne of Wales and John of Castile, it was perfectly ordinary. Five years of marriage and living together had forced them to find some way of accommodating each other, despite the fact that they still never saw eye to eye on anything. Wherever possible, they ignored each other’s company entirely and, when it was not, such as the one day a week they were expected to dine together in front of the people of Ludlow, they retreated behind a safe screen of icy-cool formality.

Today was not one of those days, however, so John was surprised to see Anne willingly seeking him out. Before he could voice said surprise, however, she brandished a thick sheaf of parchment at him.

“You’d better start packing. We’re expected back in London for Mary’s wedding.”

“I am to accompany you, then?”  John couldn’t help the question. After all, with their marriage as difficult as it was, it wasn’t unusual for Anne to seek other company on a daily basis. He was surprised she wanted to mar an occasion as joyful as Mary’s wedding was meant to be for herself by allowing him to travel to London with her. Nor could he say he was truly looking forward to it. Once they were there, the chit would doubtless only pay him the insincere attention demanded by the ridiculous fiction she felt duty bound to attempt to maintain in the face of her mother’s watchful gaze, that of their being a happily married couple rather than one who spent most of their time studiously trying to avoid one another. John resented the very idea and would have much preferred to stay behind in Ludlow. Now that they had both taken up their places on the Welsh Council, propriety would demand that Anne named him Regent for Wales while she was in London and then he could finally exert some proper influence over the Council. Exert some proper influence and enjoy the untrammelled attentions of his string of tavern girl mistresses to boot. None of them could ever truly believe she was lucky enough to find herself in the Consort of Wales’s bed and their shy, respectful and sincere caresses were exactly what he needed to temper Anne, who vacillated between cold-shouldering him entirely and fawning over him to appease her mother. Honestly, he didn’t know why he kept indulging the chit’s play-acting, it was so distasteful to him.

_“Because you daren’t admit to the entire world just how little influence you have over your teenage wife,”_ a snide little voice said in his ear, a voice he firmly quashed as Anne arched an eyebrow.

“Do you really think I’d leave you behind? Besides the fact that my mother would have my guts for garters if she saw me slight you like that, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you as Ludlow’s Regent. Maud Herbert and Elizabeth Plantagenet will do perfectly well between them.” She paused, then shrugged carelessly, “I’m sure we’ll cope. Or would you rather be the one to broadcast to the entire world that, in truth, Castile and Wales can scarcely even share a meal together? You needn’t worry that I’ll fawn over you this time. I’ll be too busy helping Mary prepare for her wedding to care much for the act we normally put on in front of my mother’s Court.”

Despite himself, John scoffed, “Helping Mary prepare for her marriage? And how do you intend to do that when you yourself still know nothing of the true duties of a wife?”

It was a testament to the rigorous training instilled in her by Lady Parr that the fourteen year old Anne no longer rose to the bait of his taunts the way her younger self would have done. Though she went rigid for a moment or two, she said nothing more than, “I believe, Lord Wales, that it is in fact the husband’s duty to make himself amenable to his wife both in bed and at board.”

The unspoken, “You have done neither,” hung in the air between them as she hesitated for a moment longer before turning on her heel, “Just make sure you’re ready to go.”

John dipped his head to her in a movement that was half nod, half a bow so high as to teeter on the edge of being outright mocking. He’d be damned if he’d show that insufferable minx an ounce more respect than he absolutely had to.

_“Curse the day she inherited the Howard pride and the Boleyn tenacity,”_ he hissed to himself in Spanish the moment she was safely out of earshot _, “We could have had such a happy marriage if she’d only learnt to look to me in matters of state the way she was supposed to.”_

* * *

 

_“Twelve year old Princesses do not fling themselves at their sisters in excitement,”_ Mary heard her governess’s voice ringing in her ears as she stood beside her father on the steps of Blackfriars, waiting for Anne and John to ride in from Ludlow, _“You’re the Duchess of Gloucester and affianced to the King of Scots. You must begin to act like it.”_

Mary intended to. She really did. But when Anne herself, swathed in a fur-lined cloak of ruby velvet to ward off the surprising chill in the June air, drew rein in the courtyard, a great rush of excitement overtook her. She heard herself cry out, “Anne!” and ran to meet her, her skirts swishing. And Anne, who had come in with her head very high, her raven hair gleaming with the blooming floral tributes the Londoners had showered her in, beamed down at her little sister, sliding from the saddle to wrap her in a bone-crushing embrace.

“My Lady Gloucester, I do believe you’ve grown,” she chuckled breathlessly, her cheek against Mary’s corn-bright hair.

Mary didn’t reply, only buried her face in Anne’s shoulder, breathing in her sister’s familiar scent of lemon laced with lavender for the first time in a year and a half, for the Howard Princesses hadn’t seen each other since the Christmas before last, which had been the last time they had both been at Court. At last, Anne pulled away briefly, just long enough to turn in Mary’s hold and wave a hand behind her vaguely, “You remember my husband and Lady Sybil, of course.”

“Of course,” Mary smiled, colour rising in her cheeks as she realised they too had seen her act so childishly and attempting to rectify matters by extending a hand graciously, “Brother John. Lady Sybil.”

“Your Highness,” the two chorused, as they dismounted far more sedately than the Princess of Wales had done. John took her slight hand and kissed it, genuinely pleased to see the more affectionate of the Howard Princesses. He often wondered what his life would have been like if he’d married her instead of Anne. Rather more peaceful, he had no doubt of that. And no doubt he’d also have garnered a lot more control over Gloucester than he had of Wales. Admittedly, his position at the English Court wouldn’t have been as exalted, but sometimes, he thought that would have been a small price to pay in exchange for wielding some real power. Of course, better yet, for him at least, would have been if the Howard girls’ birth order had been switched. Then he could have had both. He could have had the power his mother had always promised him would be his, for Mary would surely happily have handed over the reins of Ludlow to him in a way that Anne had never done and a happier marriage to a much more affectionate girl to boot.

Sighing inwardly at the way things had turned out, he straightened up, smiling at the younger girl. “You look as lovely as ever, Princess Mary,” he offered, “James of Scotland is a very lucky man.”

Mary giggled and blushed under his attentions, prompting Anne to tighten her hold on her sister’s arm. These were their last few weeks together in England. It was bad enough that Mother had made it only too clear that once the wedding took place, she would have to follow the hem of Mary’s gown as her younger sister swept ahead of her as Queen of Scots, something Anne was absolutely convinced neither her sister nor the Scots had insisted upon, but that her mother had decided for them, in a last ditch attempt to shore up Mary’s position as James’s wife by reminding Anne only too clearly which of them outranked the other now. Mary didn’t have to ruin the last little while before that happened by falling for the see-through charm of a pompous prig like John as well.

“Yes, what news of the lucky groom, my sweet sister?” she cut in silkily, “Has he arrived yet?”

She had never been more grateful for Mary’s trusting nature. Without even pausing to consider that Anne might just have been trying to win her attention away from John, she swung round to her, glowing.

“Yes, he arrived yesterday. We dined together last night and oh, Anne, he’s just as charming as you always told me he was! I can’t wait to be his wife. He’ll treat me honourably, I know he will! Oh, and he told me he wanted to see you too. He said he had fond memories of you as a child.”

“Did he now?” Anne arched an eyebrow, wondering exactly what her younger sister and brother-in-law-to-be had talked about the night before. However, Mary, with uncharacteristic coyness, deflected her older sister’s inquiring look without another word.

“He’s not the only one to have come to Court for my wedding.”

She tipped her head towards the steps and watched Anne’s face light up in delight as their father swept her a deep bow.

“Papa!” Heedless of protocol, Anne picked up her skirts and dashed over, flinging herself into her father’s arms.

The courtiers who were looking on eyed her antics indulgently. Every one of them knew that the penance Elizabeth Howard had imposed upon her husband for challenging her over the Scots and Spanish matches for their children, that of not being able to communicate with his eldest daughter, had been harsh on the both of them; a punishment to Anne for not being able to reach an accord with her husband as much as to His Highness for speaking out against the match. After all, it was clear to anyone who saw them together that the Prince Consort and the Princess of Wales adored each other  and five years of no more than smuggled letters or the strictest of formal interactions must surely have taken its toll on both of them. The English nobles were pleased to see that their Queen was allowing the Prince Consort to greet the Princess without her supervision. It suggested she was beginning to thaw at last, at least enough not to want to make a spectacle of her marital discord before the Scots.

Besides, whatever their personal feelings towards their Irish Prince Consort, it could not be claimed that he had done anything other than voice the general feeling at Court when he had challenged Her Highness’s Spanish match. Moreover, the heiress to the throne was a charming girl. She didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of her mother’s anger the way she often seemed to.

All this in mind, the nobles clapped and laughed their approval, especially when Anne reached out behind her to take Mary’s hand once more, then looked around at them all and declared, young voice pealing high with joy “La Bonheur de ma soeur est la mien! Je suis en famille!”

She and Mary dropped into simultaneous half-curtsies, the Prince Consort bowed and the three of them swept into the palace, basking in the accolade of the crowd.  Left behind, John had no choice but to offer Sybil Brandon his hand and forced some sort of thin grimace to his lips for the sake of the crowd as he followed his wife inside far more sedately.

* * *

Anne was helping Mary sort through swathes of silk in hundreds upon hundreds of different shades when her sister’s herald suddenly announced, “His Grace the King of Scots!”

Startled, the two of them jumped to their feet as James, his plumed hat at a jaunty angle on his head, strode into the room.

“Your Grace.”

“My Lady Gloucester. My Lady Princess,” he replied, kissing both of their hands in turn, Mary first, as befitted his future wife, “I see I’ve caught you unawares. I do hope I’m not intruding?”

“No, Sire, of course not!” Mary dimpled up at him, “Anne was just helping me arrange the final pieces of my trousseau so that I might look my best to meet Your Grace’s nobles in Edinburgh.”

“I’m glad to hear it. It is good to see two sisters who are so clearly affectionate towards one another,” James pinched Mary’s cheek, and then turned to Anne, “But I’m afraid, my Lady Princess, that you’ve been given a thankless task. Your sister is already so fair to look upon that even the finest fabrics will only detract from her beauty rather than enhance it.”

Mary gasped at his compliments, then flushed and giggled breathlessly. Anne cocked her head.

“Your Grace has rather polished your skill at compliments since I saw you last.”

“Well, I was rather younger then,” James defended, warming to Anne’s easy banter. He turned back to Mary, brushing his fingers against her still scarlet cheek, “Can you spare your sister for a few minutes, sweet? I need to speak to her alone.”

“Well...I’m not sure...” Mary hedged, not a little stung at her husband-to-be’s eagerness to speak to her sister rather than her. However, when James fixed her with a pleading look, “I only want to get to know my new sister. I’ve never had a sister before, you see. You can’t keep her all to yourself. Let me get to know her. I promise to bring her back in time to dine,” she melted.

“Go on then. But you will dine with us both, won’t you?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” James reassured her, brushing her knuckles with his lips, before offering Anne his arm, “Shall we, Your Highness?”

“Of course, Sire,” Anne placed her fingers lightly on his jewelled sleeve and let him lead her from her sister’s rooms.

The two of them walked in silence for a while until they came to the door of the Chapel Royal. James halted Anne by the door.

“Let’s go up into the musician’s gallery. I’d like to take a closer look at the carvings up there.”

Puzzled – the James she remembered had been more of a little soldier than a budding architect – but with no real reason to refuse his request, Anne nodded and led him up the shadowy stairs at the back of the chapel. They stood by the railing, looking down on the chapel below. A group of choristers, their sweet soprano voices trilling out like a chorus of bells, were rehearsing at the other end of the nave. They were practicing the _Te Deum_ that James and Mary would have as their recessional after the wedding Mass. When Anne pointed this out to James, his lips quirked up into a half-smile for the briefest of instants.

“Charming. Just like your sister. It suits her well.”

Yet there was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in James’s voice and Anne turned to look at him.

“You don’t sound too pleased, if you’ll forgive me saying so, Your Grace.”

“James, please, Anne. I think we’re long past formalities,” he sighed, “And it has nothing to do with your sister. She’s a sweet enough lassie, God knows. I’m sure she’ll make me a fine wife.”

James hesitated, unsure whether he really should finish the conversation he had started. But Anne was looking at him expectantly, hands clenched on the railing before her.

“But?” she prompted softly.

“But...Before I came, I found myself hoping....It was a forlorn hope, but I found myself hoping that your mother would have relented. That she would have annulled your marriage to John of Castile and allowed me to wed you in Mary’s stead. I would have been honoured to make you my wife, Anne. To make you my Queen, the way it was supposed to be.”

Anne stared at him for a few long silent seconds. Oh, if only Mother had listened to advice; had listened to her when she had pleaded for her betrothal to James to be allowed to stand! How different her life might have been! She and James could have been true partners in each other’s lives, not the barely-communicating spouses that she and John had grown up to be. Their daughter could have ruled the whole of the Isles; been crowned with thistles as much as with honeysuckle and shamrocks.

“You don’t intend to name Mary Queen?”

The words were out before she’d fully realised she was speaking. James looked at her in horror. Had he misspoken? What if she was offended by this slight upon her family name? His entourage intended to spring it on Elizabeth after the wedding Mass, since she hadn’t insisted on finalising Mary’s title within the marriage treaty itself, to show her that Scotland couldn’t be slighted in the way that she had scanted them without some sort of consequence, but he’d never meant to let it slip to Anne. This private conversation was only meant to reassure her, to let her know that he regretted not having had the chance to unite their countries in the way they’d always planned as children.  Nothing more than that.

Impulsively, he reached for her hand, “Understand, it’s not meant as a slight to your sister. I have every intention of according her every honour she is due as my wife.”

“But you don’t intend to proclaim her your Queen.” Anne’s voice was flat and expressionless. James winced.

“I can’t. My Council won’t allow it. They say we have to name her Duchess of Orkney instead of Queen or Princess Consort to show your mother that there are consequences to her having reneged on our betrothal in favour of the Spanish match. They wouldn’t have had a problem naming you Queen; not with you being heiress to England, but Mary, Duchess of Gloucester? It’s a whole other kettle of fish. They might one day relent and consent to titling her Princess Consort, if she bears me a healthy girl, but they won’t let me make her my Queen.”

Anne nodded, and James was relieved to see little more than cool disinterest in her dark eyes. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you before the wedding Mass, but since you’d guessed anyway..,” he shrugged. Anne smiled sadly at him.

“I’m glad you did.”

James blinked at her and she chuckled, “Oh no! I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not about to run off and warn my Lady Mother. I won’t tell a soul. It’s just nice to know I’m not the only one who regrets what could have been.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a few moments longer. James was about to suggest that they go and re-join Mary in her rooms when Anne suddenly spoke.

“If I ever decide to rid myself of John and the Castilian yoke he’s so determined to pin round my neck, can I rely on your support? As a brother, of course, not as a potential spouse!” She grinned cheekily, face suddenly lighting up in the gloom, “I’m afraid once you wed my sister, you’re stuck with her till death. I won’t hear of anything else!”

James laughed and squeezed her hand where he still held it.

“As a brother and a knight,” he promised. “You were wed underage and, if what I hear is true, against your will into the bargain. Given those circumstances, it would be scandalous of me not to support your quest for an annulment.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Anne breathed, leaning in so quickly that James didn’t have time to react. She kissed him, on the cheek, but close enough to the corner of his mouth for there to be serious questions over the action’s propriety.

Before he had even fully registered what was happening, however, he had pulled away, cheeks flaming a tell-tale scarlet.

“We should go. Mary will be wondering what’s happened to us,” she said breathlessly.

James managed a half nod. It was all she needed. She whirled away from him down the steps of the gallery, leaving him staring after her, more confused than he cared to admit by what had just happened.

* * *

“Look at you. Younger than me, prettier than me, wife-to-be to a reigning King! I’m eclipsed!” Anne laughed, putting her hands on Mary’s shoulders and turning her to face the mirror so that she could see the vision of beauty that their mother’s ladies had created.

The younger Howard girl was glittering in pale rose damask embroidered with black griffins and swans, the device she had chosen for her own duchy of Gloucester. Rose pearls and diamonds gleamed in her intricately braided hair, dangled in seeming cascades from her ears and looped multiple times around her slender wrists and throat. Her train was so long it was going to take half a dozen maids – three English, three Scottish, as per the ceremony arrangements – to carry it behind her. Despite her own vanity, Anne freely admitted that Mary, budding in her first flush of womanhood as she was, outshone the little girl she had been on her own wedding day tenfold.

“James isn’t going to believe his eyes. He’ll melt at the sight of you,” she murmured, resting her chin lightly on the top of Mary’s head, careful not to ruin her sister’s elaborate hair-do.

Mary smiled slightly, clearly too overcome by nerves to speak. Anne intended to squeeze her hand in reassurance, but at that moment, their mother entered the room and Anne was forced to spring backwards or risk a reprimand for endangering her sister’s glorious attire.

“Let’s hope His Grace of Scotland doesn’t melt too much, Anne. We still need him to be able to perform his duty,” she replied, frowning as she heard her older daughter refer to the King of Scots so informally. At fourteen, Anne should have known better than to let protocol slip like that, even if the man in question had once been her betrothed as well.

Anne could have cursed her mother as she saw Mary blanch at the words’ double meaning. She leaned over to kiss Mary’s cheek, “The King will treat you honourably, Mary. He’s given me his word.”

“That’s all very well, and I’m sure it’s very commendable of you to want to wish your sister well on this special day, but haven’t you a husband of your own? I don’t believe I’ve seen you together for half an hour at stretch in the past fortnight. Go and find him while I speak to your sister. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you.”

Elizabeth’s tone was brusquer than she had meant it to be, her unusual apprehension of how the imminent ceremony would pan out – the fear that the Scots might try to slight Mary for not being Anne – manifesting itself as bad temper towards her elder daughter.

She knew she’d misspoken the instant Anne stiffened and dropped into a cool half-curtsy.

“Yes, Lady Mother.”

She swept from the room before Elizabeth could call her back to apologise. Before long, Elizabeth had put the uncomfortable moment from her mind. After all, she’d done the right thing. Sending Anne to spend time, however brief, with John, could only be a good thing. The way her eldest daughter had been behaving recently, one might be forgiven for thinking she wasn’t married at all. It would be well to put paid to that before Mary entered the chapel. Just in case the young King of Scots got any last-minute romantic notions of jilting Mary at the altar and trying to marry Anne instead.

Once Mary was Queen of Scots, she’d find Anne and apologise. She’d find Anne and explain what pressure she’d been under lately; how much, for instance, Queen Isabella of Castile was hinting that she’d relish the news of an English grandchild. Once Mary was Queen of Scotland.

* * *

“By the power vested in me by God’s Holy Church, I now declare thee joined in holy matrimony.” The Abbess of Ross made the sign of the Cross over James and Mary’s heads and James rose to his feet, putting his hand out to help Mary up. He bent his head, lifted her veil one-handed and kissed her, to the great delight of the surrounding nobles.

He encouraged her to rest her hand on his sleeve and led her from the dais. His herald went before them, proclaiming “His Grace, James, King of Scots!  Mary, Duchess of Orkney!”

The words and the Scottish applause which followed fell into a suddenly dangerously silent church. Shocked to the core by the announcement, the English nobles couldn’t bring themselves even to clap as custom demanded.

James chanced a look at Elizabeth. She was ash-white, her lips so firmly pressed together they were in danger of disappearing entirely. Her hands had frozen in mid-air a couple of inches apart. The skin at her neck was scarlet with fury where it peeped out from beneath her ermine collar.

“Sire?” Mary whispered beside him, unnerved by the sudden silence.

James glanced down at her and felt a surge of pity. In the few short weeks he’d been at the English Court, it had become all too clear to him that Mary was her mother’s favourite child; the one who had been over-indulged and spared any trauma she could possibly be sheltered from. No doubt this sudden demotion from the future Queen of Scotland to the Duchess of Orkney was the biggest shock she had ever experienced in her life.

Mixed with the pity, however, was a sudden, unexpected tenderness for her. Given how petted she was, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d kicked up a fuss about her new title. Yet she was still following him meekly down the aisle, even as she bit the inside of her cheek to hold herself together. He had to admire her self-control. It was much better than he would have expected of her. “Keep going,” he breathed, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, “I’ll explain everything later.”

Straightening, he caught Anne’s eye where she stood on the opposite side of the aisle to her mother. Her face was impassive, but she gave him the tiniest nod; so small it was almost imperceptible. Indeed, James would have thought he’d imagined it himself, were it not for the fact that, as he and Mary drew level with her, she pretended to shake herself and began clapping.

Not to be outdone by her daughter’s poise, Elizabeth roused herself enough to follow suit. The rest of the English court were quick to second her motion, so that, in the end, James and Mary proceeded out of the Chapel Royal to the ringing applause they deserved after all.

 


	8. VIII: Black Bulls VII

**Chapter VII**

The door to Elizabeth’s Privy Chamber almost fell off its hinges, she’d slammed it that hard behind her.

“How dare he? How dare that braggart of a Scottish boy have the nerve to look me in the eye after he’s slighted Mary so? Has he forgotten that my army could crush his in the blink of an eye if I ordered them to? You’d think he’d have a little more care.”

“It’s not James’s fault, Mother,” Anne defended, pushing herself off the wall and coming forward with her hands outstretched placatingly, “You mustn’t think it is.”

Elizabeth whirled on her, “Not James’s fault? Whose fault could it be if it’s not his? The Scots knew that signing the marriage treaty meant they had agreed to make your sister Queen. Who else but James would have had both the power and the nerve to demote her to the mere Duchess of Orkney?”

“His Council,” Anne said smoothly, keeping her voice steady, albeit only with an effort, “They will have felt slighted because you insisted on betrothing James to Mary instead of me and decided to save face that way. Really, one can hardly blame them. It must be hard to be a small nation squeezed out by the alliance between two larger ones. But Your Majesty need not worry about Mary’s treatment in Scotland. James assured me that he would always treat her with honour and I am inclined to believe him.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at her daughter. “You seem to be taking all this very calmly, Madam. Do you not care for your sister’s status in a foreign land? Or are you too proud for even that? Do you not care for how she’ll be treated, even though she’ll be the one you’re reliant on for any diplomatic advantage when you treat with Scotland?”

“Of course I do,” Anne soothed, but Elizabeth was too irate to listen.

“Don’t you dare lie to me! I can hear you gloating over poor Mary’s  misfortune with every word you speak!  You’re glad to see her shamed, aren’t you, you little vixen?”

“No! That’s not what I meant at all!”

“Oh yes it is. You always wanted to marry James. You begged me for weeks to let your betrothal stand. I resisted you, for you were just a child. A child with little knowledge of international diplomacy. And it is that child that is speaking now. A spoiled angry child who is gloating in the fact that if she is not to be Queen of Scotland, than nor will anyone else!”

“No, My Lady Mother. Please, listen to me.  I understand you are angry, but you twist my words unfairly. Of course I care for Mary. Of course I wish it were possible for us to secure her a higher title. But,” she continued, raising her shoulders a fraction, “It is not, for we have no power over the Scottish Privy Council and James has promised me he will treat Mary with all the respect she is due as his wife, no matter what title his Council see fit to grant her. I trust him, hence why I am content to let the matter rest as it is. After all, why would I have cause to doubt James’s word? Is he not a man of honour? You’ve always told me he was.”

“I have my doubts. If he was a man of honour, he would have let your sister become Queen of Scotland. Goodness knows there are enough precedents for it. When Isabella de Este married Ferdinand Gonzaga fifteen years or so ago, was she not named Marchesa de Mantua jure uxor because he had no sisters?”

“Isabella de Este was heiress to Ferrara. It was simply right and proper, therefore, to let her have a title that matched her husband’s in rank. Mary, much as we love her, is no Isabella de Este.”

Anne said no more, but before her mother could start drawing her own conclusions, her father, who had hitherto been watching the exchange in silence, broke in.

“Anne is right, Elizabeth. You’ve no one but yourself to blame for this. If you’d wanted to be sure the Scots would accept Mary without question, you should have settled the matter of her title in the marriage treaty.  If you’d been determined enough, you might have been able to wangle her the title of Princess Consort. You didn’t. Nor did you give her a generous dowry, either, which gave them a further excuse to, as you put it, slight our daughter. It’s a shame, but I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. It’s not the first time you’ve failed to stand up to a foreign nation over the matter of our daughters’ marriages, after all.”

Elizabeth whirled around to him, “How dare you suggest that this is my fault?! How dare you? You were the one who told me not to bankrupt the country to make them accept Mary?! I’d have tripled her dowry if you hadn’t cautioned me against it!” Her mouth dropped open as a thought occurred to her, “My God, you were deliberately trying to make this happen, weren’t you? You wanted the Scots to have a reason to refuse our daughter the Crown Matrimonial!” Elizabeth gasped. Thomas shrugged.

“I never said that, Elizabeth, and you know I didn’t. Nor did I quite mean give Mary little more than the revenues from Gloucester itself when I warned you against bankrupting the country. That was your choice, not mine. But never mind. It’s done now. I could only wish you emulated Isabella of Castile a little more closely, that’s all.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know full well what I mean. Isabella has three daughters, but she’d never dream of splitting her kingdom and allowing Maria to inherit Aragon while Juana inherits Castile. She cares more for the power of her kingdom than that. To her, nothing is more important than ensuring her daughters and granddaughter inherit a more powerful kingdom than the one she inherited. Whereas you, presented with the chance to make your daughter a Queen twice over and your granddaughter the guardian angel of a united Albion, threw it away in order to secure Mary a more powerful match than she could otherwise have hoped for. It’s backfired and now you’re railing over the almost-inevitable consequences of such an audacious plan. And you say I favour Anne? Honestly. It’s a case of the pot calling the kettle black if ever I saw one.”

Elizabeth’s face purpled and then blanched. She half-turned away from her husband, struggling to control her emotions. As much as she hated to admit it, a tiny part of her couldn’t help but see the sense of his words. She had been careless when she drew up Mary’s marriage contract. She should have insisted on settling the matter of Mary’s title rather than trusting in the honour of the duplicitous Scots. If she had been stronger, both her daughters would be Queens or Queens-to-be now, rather than just a Princess and a Duchess.

“ _But then, Thomas is right. It’s not the first time you’ve failed to act in your daughters’ best interests. If you had been stronger five years ago, Anne would be Queen of Scotland now. Who knows how much happier she’d be if that were the case.”_ A snide little voice said in her ear and, although Elizabeth did her best to ignore it, in the end, she had to admit it was the truth. Maybe she had made a mistake when she’d broken Anne’s betrothal to James. The girl certainly believed she’d have been happier as James’s bride. Whether that would have been the case or not, Elizabeth didn’t know, but she had to admit that Anne hadn’t learnt to content herself with her marriage as well as she’d hoped would have been the case by now.

Encouraged by his wife’s lengthy ruminating silence, Thomas met Anne’s eye and offered her a reassuring smile. Unfortunately, Elizabeth turned back around at that moment and caught the smile.

Her blood ran cold. It was just as she had feared. The two were conspiring against her to make her look a fool in front of the Scottish entourage. Thomas had tricked her into beggaring Mary and thus sealed her fate as a scorned Duchess rather than the Consort she’d been raised to be. Anne had shown her up in the Chapel Royal by taking the announcement of Mary’s new title far too calmly; far better than even she had. And now she was making matters even worse by daring to suggest that the Scottish had had the right to scant Mary in the way that they had.  This unholy alliance between her and her father had to stop. Thomas was only encouraging her. She’d tried to nip it in the bud years ago, but it seemed she’d failed. Well, if cautioning Thomas hadn’t worked, maybe restricting Anne’s behaviour would.

“You’re too spoiled, proud and clever for your own good, my girl. Let’s hope motherhood settles you a bit,” she spat, whirling around to face her daughter.

There was an uncomfortably long silence. Anne began to tremble.

“Mother-motherhood?” she quavered.

“Well, of course. You’re fourteen now. You didn’t think you’d be able to get away with leaving your marriage unconsummated forever, did you? You know full well George is already a father twice over.”

“He’s five years older than me!” Anne protested. Her mother continued as though she hadn’t even spoken.

“You’re fourteen. You’ve held your own Christmas and Easter courts in Ludlow, had precedence over the Welsh Council since March. Surely you must have seen this coming?”

Anne went white. Alarmed, Thomas hurried over to try to support her, but she shook off his tentative hand, fixing pleading eyes on her mother.

“I beg you, Lady Mother, no.”

Elizabeth spoke over her, tone implacable, “I don’t know what childish grudge you still hold against John, but I’ve told you before it’s unbecoming. You’re the Princess of Wales; it’s time you learnt to do your duty.”

Considering the discussion over, Elizabeth signed to her guard to show the others out. He opened the door, but Anne stayed rooted to the spot.

“Your Grace, please...”

“You are dismissed, Your Highness. You too, My Lord Ormonde.”

Elizabeth’s voice was so cold, her husband and daughter knew it was no use arguing. Thomas put a comforting arm around Anne’s shoulders, guiding her down into a curtsy as she forced the words, “My Lady Queen,” out between gritted teeth.

Then he accompanied her to the door, knowing from the way her body was rigid under his hold that her eyes would be burning with the tears she refused to shed.

* * *

 

The Dean of Ludlow Chapel processed around the bed half a dozen times, swinging a large ball of incense and calling on God, Saint Anne and the Virgin to bless the consummation of the marriage; to keep the bed pure and holy and shelter those who would be climbing into it. John watched her with impatient eyes, a tumbler of strong wine in one hand. He tipped his head back and swallowed, then grinned rakishly at Francesco and Diego, the grooms who had come to watch him be put to bed with his fourteen year old wife.”

At last, his five year seniority and greater experience would come into its own. Anne might outrank him in the Council Chamber and the halls of Ludlow, might do everything she could to remind him that it was she who held the power and that he would never be more than her Consort – and a Consort she barely tolerated at that – but he’d be damned if he let her play the mistress in their bedchamber too. Tonight – and throughout their marriage’s future – he’d demand the proper respect from her. This would be his sphere, not hers. Here, at the very least, he’d have the power she denied him elsewhere.

There was a sudden flourish of trumpets and Anne appeared in the doorway. She wore a flowing shift of silver satin and her raven hair curled temptingly down her back. Her face was cool, but the way Lady Parr had her hand on her back to propel her into the room betrayed her nervousness.

Suddenly, Anne turned back to Sybil and hugged her, murmuring something too low for the others to hear. As Sybil drew back, she made a slight movement with one hand that might have been to squeeze Anne’s. The barely-subdued sympathy on the older girl’s face was unmistakeable.

John felt a surge of contempt fill him. How dare Sybil pity Anne? And how dare Anne fear him?  She should be counting herself lucky that his mother had deigned to allow a son of hers to sire the Princesses of a backwater country like England.

At the same time, however, he felt desire stir within him, sending its tendrils of heat all through his body to his loins. He couldn’t deny that seeing the proud little lioness discomforted was arousing.

Anne drew back the silken sheets with a hand he knew she was having to fight to keep from trembling.

“Husband,” she greeted him unsteadily.

“Wife,” he replied coolly, “Let me kiss you.”

She turned her cheek towards him, but daring now as he’d scarcely ever been before, knowing misdemeanours here would be forgiven as the lapses of a lusty young fellow impatient for his bride, he grabbed her chin and forced her lips to meet his.

There was a moment’s awkward silence and then Anne’s chaplain moved forward to make the Sign of the Cross on Anne’s forehead.

“In the name of the Virgin, Your Highness. May your womb be blessed many times over, as hers was blessed by God.”

Anne said nothing, only nodded and mouthed a reluctant, “Amen.”

The curtains were pulled shut around them then, leaving the two of them looking at each other.

“You’re meant to please me, not force yourself on me,” Anne tried to sound sarcastic, but was betrayed by her voice shaking.

“Pleasure be damned,” John replied, stripping his nightshirt and hose off roughly, “I’m meant to get you pregnant with a Countess of Caernarvon and that’s precisely what I mean to do.”

* * *

 

“I do hope Anne’s all right. She looked so terrified yesterday.”

Sybil was waiting with the other girls from Anne’s household: Meg Percy, Susanna de La Pole and Eliza Stafford, for Anne and John to come out of their bedchamber. The girls had been trusted to do it alone, despite the fact that they were all sixteen and under, because, as Lady Parr had murmured to Sybil at prayers that morning, “It wouldn’t surprise me if the Princess needed her friends around her this morning. “

At Susanna’s words, Sybil glanced up.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Susan. After all, His Highness wouldn’t dare hurt her. Not more than he had to, at any rate.”

Susan looked sceptical and Eliza opened her mouth to speak, but before he could do so, the bedchamber door opened and Prince John came out. His shirt was poorly buttoned and his hair tousled, but he was sporting a triumphant grin.

“My Lords, My Ladies, last night Castile traversed the borders of Wales!”

His gentlemen whistled and hallooed, clapping him admiringly on the back. Sybil and the others pushed past them into his bedchamber, where he and Anne had spent the night.

Anne sat up in bed, hugging her knees to her chest like a child. Sybil was alarmed to see that her face was, if possible, even whiter and more drawn than it had been the night before. She was about to say something, when Eliza, the calmest of the four of them, placed a hand on her wrist. Sybil glanced over and Eliza shook her head.

“Anne doesn’t need to be pushed right now,” she breathed in a whisper.

Sybil bit the inside of her cheek and nodded. Meg and Susan seemed to be picking up the same vibes, for the four of them dressed Anne in uncharacteristic silence. None of them knew what to say.

Until, all of a sudden, Meg did.

“Anne! What’s this?” she asked, lifting the other girl’s wrist up for closer inspection. Sybil glanced over, almost desultorily, only to do a double take. Anne’s wrist was bruised so deeply it was almost indigo. Sybil winced at the mere sight of it, then turned to Anne.

“May I?” she asked gently. Anne inclined her head, but couldn’t quite stifle the hiss of pain that left her lips as Sybil probed both her wrists with tender fingers.

“Was it John?” Eliza queried, pitching her voice low enough that only the five of them could hear, mindful that they were still in the Prince’s rooms.

When Anne didn’t reply, her four companions exchanged glances. Meg flung a thick wrap around Anne’s shoulders and the other three clustered around her, forming a protective wall around their friend and mistress as they hustled her out of her husband’s rooms and took her back to her own.

Lady Parr started forward at the sight of them, but something in Sybil and Eliza’s faces stopped her in her tracks. She fell back, without quite fully knowing why, and let the quintet shut themselves in Anne’s bedchamber.

“You have to tell Lady Parr! And your mother! He can’t be allowed to treat you like this!” Susan burst out, the moment the heavy oak door had swung shut behind them.

Anne looked at her, coal eyes glitteringly hard.

“Do you honestly think my Lady Mother will care, Susan? All she wants is for John to get me pregnant. I doubt she cares how rough he is while he does it.”

“You’re the Princess of Wales!” Meg gasped.

“Yes, which makes me my mother’s subject. Her subject whose principal duty is to secure the Succession.”

For a few seconds, Anne said nothing further. Then she laughed, a great bark of a laugh that held no mirth whatsoever. “You’d better pray that John’s got me pregnant with a girl tonight, because I am never sharing his bed again if I can help it.”

Her voice cracked on the last word and Sybil, acting on instinct, guided her to a seat on the edge of the bed. Sitting down beside her, she broke the rules of protocol and put an arm around the younger girl.

The unexpected gesture undid Anne completely. The last vestiges of her self-control shattered. Burying her face in Sybil’s shoulder, she sobbed as though her heart would break.

 


	9. IX: Black Bulls VIII

**Chapter VIII**

_December 1508_

The bells were ringing joyfully in Ludlow church, pealing high above the villagers' heads. A crowd was gathering around the town crier as he waved the scroll he was carrying and blew into his horn with a flourish.

Satisfied that he had their attention, he unrolled the scroll and began.

"God Save and God Bless His Highness, the right high and mighty Prince Richard of Wales!"

The assembled cheered dutifully, if not quite as enthusiastically as they might have done if he had announced the birth of a healthy Duchess of Carnavron.

"It's a shame the Princess couldn't have birthed a girl," one of the women shopping in the market place muttered to her companion, "Still, she's alive and the babe is healthy enough, I'll warrant. If they'd feared for his life, they wouldn't have dared draw attention to him by announcing his birth. They wouldn't have wanted the embarrassment of having to announce his death within days. That bodes well for the future, I suppose."

Her companion arched an eyebrow, "You don't sound convinced, Joan. Are you ill-wishing our dear Princess?" There was a definite note of warning in her voice as she continued, "Have you forgotten that she's but fifteen, for all she's been wed these six years past? She's young, time's still on her side. I'll lay ten shillings on our having a Duchess to follow her brother before too long."

"If Their Highnesses reconcile, perhaps," Joan conceded, moving past the knot of people in the square to cross over to the fish stall. Maud followed her, shrugging.

"Why would they not? They've lived together peacefully enough for these last six years, have they not?"

"Don't be such a fool! Everyone knows the Consort keeps a string of mistresses, even if he clearly does his duty by the Princess too. Does that suggest a happy marriage to you?"

Maud pursed her lips and glanced up the sloping street to where the bulk of Ludlow Castle cast its shadow across the village.

"Poor lass," she breathed, "It can't be easy for her, having all our expectations rest on her shoulders like this."

* * *

Anne's bedchamber was dark and shuttered. When Sybil tapped on the door, she got no response and only the knowledge that they were close friends and Anne wouldn't punish her for her audacity gave her the bravery to push the door ajar anyway.

"Your Highness?" she murmured, approaching the bed tentatively.

The younger girl said nothing, simply lay there like stone.

Sybil hesitated. But she had left the door open behind her and, from the next room, a thin wail rose insistently. Stirred into action by the sound of it, Sybil put her hand on Anne's shoulder.

"His Highness is crying for his mother. Can you not hear him?"

"Let his household care for him." Anne's voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. She rolled over on to her back, staring aimlessly into space. Sybil shared a worried glance with Eliza, who had entered the room behind her. This lethargy was wholly unlike the Anne they had served together since to their childhood; since as girls of nine and eight, they had been chosen as companions to the then six year old Princess of Wales and four year old Duchess of Gloucester. Eliza stretched a hand out to Anne.

"We've tried, Your Highness. His Grace simply refuses to stop crying. He's pining for his mother."

Anne showed no sign of having heard. Her thin face held none of the eagerness to bond with her child that was generally to be expected of a girl who had just had her first child three days earlier.

Despite herself, Sybil felt her hand clench on Anne's shoulder as she struggled to get through to the other girl.

"Anne...You've not laid eyes on the boy since you named him. Please. Let us bring him to you. At least give yourself a chance to bond with him."

"What use is he to me?" Anne asked dully, not even turning her head to look at them, "What use is a boy to me? I need a girl, a Duchess of Carnarvon, not a boy. A boy can't take the throne."

"That boy is the only thing standing between you and having to go back into John's bed! You might want to take a little more care for his life!"

Eliza gasped at Sybil's words and even she couldn't quite believe what had just come out of her mouth. She was about to backtrack and apologise, when she suddenly realised that her blunt words had at least triggered a reaction a reaction from Anne. Colour flared in the younger girl's cheeks and she forced herself into a sitting position.

"I'm never going back into his bed! Never, do you hear me?"

"How are you going to avoid it?" Eliza gasped, shocked to the core by her mistress's words. "Even if you avail yourself of the full three months seclusion you're allowed by custom, as soon as you're churched, you'll be expected to try to present England with a Duchess of Carnarvon

"Three months gets me to my sixteenth birthday. I'll be of age. I'll be able to write to the Flamenica and petition to have my marriage annulled. All I have to do is keep John from my bed for long enough that for the process to have gone far enough that the Church herself has forbidden us from sharing a bed while they investigate and rule on my plea. I think I can manage that."

Anne's eyes were burning and, seeing Eliza's jaw drop out of the corner of her eye, Sybil hastened to intervene.

"Will you at least let us bring you your son? He deserves to get to know his mother."

"By Our Lady, Sybil, will you never learn to let things go?"

Despite Anne's exasperated words, however, she was half-laughing, which dispelled Sybil's trepidation. Challenging Anne; getting her wound up and emotion pumping through her had always been the best way to lift her mood; within reason, of course.

"You always told me you resented the way your mother favoured George and Mary. You always swore you'd never do anything other than treat your children scrupulously equally. Are you already going back on that?"

"I've only got the one!"

"For now. But are you really going to let your just hatred of his father forever colour your relationship with your firstborn?"

Anne pressed her lips together and her eyes slid away from Sybil's. The older girl waited out her reluctant silence with stoic patience.

At last, Anne exhaled.

"Very well, Sybil. Eliza. I'll strike you a deal. I'll let you bring me my son and attempt to bond with him if you also find me a lawyer so I can discuss the state of my marriage."

* * *

Elizabeth Wykes stood in the doorway of her husband's study, watching him pore over a letter. She waited for a few moments, but when he didn't turn to her, she moved forward into the room.

"Are you not coming to bed, Thomas?" she murmured, already knowing, from the way he hadn't noticed her, that the answer was likely to be in the negative. Her husband was a determined, quick-witted man and when he was wrestling with a particularly knotty problem, he stopped caring about basic human needs such as food or sleep. Elizabeth often thanked God that, in a world that so openly favoured women, men were allowed to take the intricate matters of the law out of their hands. That it was thought demeaning for the majority of women to have to worry themselves about the day-to-day ramifications of the laws agreed upon by the great ladies of Parliament and the Privy Council. She didn't know what Thomas would do without such a challenge in his life; such an opportunity to use his nimble brain. He'd be bored silly.

Her husband broke into her musings by, surprisingly, standing up.

"Yes, Lisbet. I will come to bed. But I must rise early. I've to ride for Ludlow in the morning."

"Ludlow?"

"It appears the Duke of Ormonde has heard of my affinity for the law and wishes to send me to consult with the Princess on a matter of great importance."

"Does he say what?"

"No, only that discretion is of the greatest importance and that I am not to tell anyone that he is the one who sent me. Between you and me, however, I suspect Her Highness might want advice on the matter of an annulment."

"An annulment? Really?" Elizabeth couldn't hide her surprise. Thomas shrugged.

"In theory, it's a fairly simple matter. Her Highness was underage when the match was contracted and she's within her rights to repudiate it now, at least she will be in three months time as long as she doesn't share a bed with her husband between her sixteenth birthday and whenever the Flamenica decides to grant her annulment."

"In practice?" Elizabeth pressed, sensing there was something her husband wasn't saying. Thomas blew out his cheeks.

"In practice, she's standing up and accusing her mother of erring so badly in her choice of husband that she can never hope to reconcile with the man. And the husband she's seeking to rid herself of is the son of an incredibly powerful Queen; the brother of a Princess who will inherit the entirety of the Spanish Kingdoms. The slight on his honour is not one that is going to be forgotten lightly. The quest for an annulment isn't going to be as easy as the sheltered Princess of Wales may think it will be."

"But you'll take it on anyway, won't you?" Elizabeth murmured, trailing her fingers down Thomas's chest and knowing the answer would be in the affirmative. The husband she knew and adored would never turn down a challenge, especially not one of this magnitude. He snaked an arm around her waist.

"I'll go to Ludlow and meet with the Princess, certainly. How could I do any less? I am but Their Highnesses' humble servant. His Grace of Ormonde sends me and I obey."

"Oh, so you're Their Highnesses' humble servant now, are you? And what about me? Are you not bound by the wedding Mass to cherish and obey me?" Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, eliciting a low chuckle from her husband.

"I swore allegiance to the Princess and the Duke. I swore my heart to you, Lisbet Wykes. And by God, you're a harsh and jealous mistress!"

With that, he swept her up into his arms and bore her up the stairs into their bedroom.

* * *

"I want him gone. I don't care how, I just want him gone. If I have to stand up before a court and say that he abused me on our wedding night and that my mother did nothing about it, then I will. I don't care how shameful that is for Her Majesty; I'll do it without a second thought. I just want to be free of John."

"Yes, Your Highness. I understand that," Thomas rubbed the bridge of his nose in exasperation, "But surely you can see that a slightly less...antagonistic approach would be more likely to yield results here. We want to be able to avoid war with the Spanish if at all possible."

He bit back a sigh as the Princess's face clouded over. They had been cloistered in her bedroom for nearly four days now, struggling to come to an accord with regards to how best to go about appealing for an annulment. When he'd taken on the Duke's commission, he hadn't bargained on the Princess being quite so stubborn...or so full of rancour towards her husband.

He spread his hands, trying to conciliate her a little, "Your youth when the marriage was solemnised is Your Grace's greatest advantage. No one can deny you were married underage. If you press that point above all others, and only rely on the breach of trust between Your Highnesses as justification for Your Grace's claim that the Queen has failed in her duty as a loving mother to secure you the kind of marriage you have a right to expect, then I can't see any fair reason why you should not be granted your annulment, My Lady. I would only counsel sending your appeal as quickly as possible, before your Lady Mother has a chance to get wind of it and intercept your courier."

At his words, Anne's face cleared. "You are right, Master Wykes. But tell me, for I want to be sure I am not mistaken in this, am I right in thinking that, as I was but a girl of nine when my union to John was contracted, I am under no legal obligation to provide for him at all, once our marriage is dissolved?"

"That is correct, Your Highness," Thomas answered cautiously, "However, I would caution against taking such a drastic step. After all, the Spaniards will take your seeking an annulment as slight enough upon their Prince's honour. Anything that would place further strain upon the relations between our two countries is preferably to be avoided, if at all possible."

Anne hesitated, glancing towards the cradle in the corner. She exhaled, fighting to calm herself. Much though it galled her, she could see the sense in Master Wykes' words. If nothing else, Richard didn't deserve to grow up knowing she had been childishly vindictive enough to consign his father to such a fate.

She shook her head slightly, putting those thoughts aside for later perusal.

"I thank you for your advice, sir. I will give it due consideration. Now, if you would oblige me by summarising the draft of our argument?"

"To the Most Excellent Beata IX, Flamenica Maxima of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, Abbess of Rome etc, greetings. Your Grace is writing to petition for your marriage to His Highness the Prince John of Castile to be annulled, firstly on the grounds that Your Highness was underage when the union was contracted and your Lady Mother coerced you into it for the sake of the country. Your Grace's loyalty to your mother; your knowledge of the importance of both filial duty and the sanctity of marriage have made Your Highness loath to repudiate your union, but after much thought and prayer, God and the Virgin have led you to take this irredeemable step. Your Highness feels sure that Her Holiness cannot fail to see the justness of your cause, given your impressionable youth at the time the match was made. Secondly, Your Grace's husband has acted in breach of trust, not once, but many times, by forcing his unwanted carnal attentions upon you. This he has done, with not only the tacit consent of both your mothers, but even with their open encouragement. This unbearable state of affairs has left Your Highness with no other recourse but to beseech your most just and loving Holy Mother to intercede on your behalf and release you from the intolerable yoke of your Castilian marriage. Your Highness remains, etc."

Anne nodded, "Make out a fair copy of it just as soon as ever you can, please."

Thomas hesitated. How did Her Highness intend to smuggle this explosive missive out of the country? If Her Majesty found out before the process was too far underway to be stopped, it could be disastrous.

Noticing the lawyer's hesitation, Anne cocked an elegant eyebrow, "You entertain doubts, Master Wykes?"

"Not for the validity of Your Grace's argument," Thomas hastened to assure her, "It is only...May I ask how you intend to send this letter out of the country, My Lady? If it was to be detected before it had had a chance to work its desired effect..."

"Your concerns are justified, Master Wykes," Anne said smoothly, "You are right in saying that I would not want this letter to be found by the wrong person. Which is why I intend to send you to Rome with it."

Thomas couldn't stop his jaw dropping. "Me, Your Highness?"

Anne shrugged, face blank, "It seems the obvious solution. No one would suspect a man of carrying a message of such importance. And my father assured me your loyalty was unquestionable. I hope you're not going to give me reason to doubt his word?"

"Of course not, Your Highness!"

"Good. Then that is settled. Now, I'll have Eliza show you down the back stairs. It wouldn't do to have you seen by the wrong person. I am supposed to be in seclusion, after all."

For a moment, as Thomas bowed over her hand and saluted her fingers with the lightest of kisses, her young dark eyes sparkled with mischief. Then she dismissed him with a wave of her hand and he was following a young woman with red-gold hair down a dimly lit, deserted stairwell out into the courtyard.

Anne lay back in bed after Master Wykes had gone, fighting to withhold her excitement. The thought of finally being able to rid herself of John, to be free to marry again, to someone of her own choosing...it was almost too good to be true. After all these years, all those horrendous nights in his bed...

A commotion in the corner suddenly brought her out of her musings. Richard, who had been surprisingly good throughout her discussions with Master Wykes, had begun to fuss.

Sighing, Anne got to her feet and crossed the room to the crib.

"Hush now, little one. Hush for your Mama, hmm?" she muttered uncertainly, leaning in to pick him up and bouncing him awkwardly in her arms in a half-hearted attempt to calm him.

She'd always imagined she'd be a good mother; that she'd dote on her childrens' every breath; be able to calm them within moments of picking them up. Yet she found it impossible even to begin to bond with Richard. Though she refused to admit it and had taken to spending more and more time with him in an attempt to find that magical maternal love that everyone told her she ought to have for her firstborn, she couldn't ever see him when she looked at him. All she could ever see was John. And that, she was quickly coming to realise, was an impediment she'd neither foreseen nor was able to overcome.

Richard paused, then screwed up his face and wailed more ferociously, in what seemed to Anne like blatant contempt of her efforts. He wriggled fractiously in his swaddling bands, kicking his little legs impatiently. Involuntarily, she stiffened, her arms tightening momentarily around his tiny middle. Then, giving up even a basic attempt at calming him, she placed him back in the lavish fur-lined cradle and called for Susan.

"It appears Prince Richard is bored of my company, Susan. Take him back to the nursery, would you?"

"Yes, My Lady," Susan murmured, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from saying anything else. At last, she ventured, "His Highness the Prince of Castile asked if he might dine with Your Grace tonight. What shall I tell him?"

"Why, that I am indisposed, as usual."

"You can't keep him out forever." There was the slightest note of warning in the older girl's tone. Anne tossed her head.

"No. But I am entitled to three months' seclusion to recover from the birth if I feel I require them. I intend to use every moment of them to my advantage."

Susan opened her mouth to protest – if Anne was well enough to see a lawyer, surely she was well enough to dine with her husband – but Anne cut her off with a yawn.

"You know Mrs Orchard said it was a difficult birth and I should get as much rest as possible. Having John to dinner would not be restful in the slightest. I couldn't possibly cope. Look, I can hardly stay upright as it is."

So saying, Anne suddenly leaned heavily on Susan's free arm. Knowing the other girl was merely feigning exhaustion, but having no way to refuse to indulge her – she'd never dared presume on her friendship with the Princess to the same extent as Sybil and Eliza – Susan suppressed a sigh, helped her young mistress back to bed and then carried the by now raucously squalling Prince out of the room.

* * *

A shadowy figure exited the Ludlow stables, leading a swift grey courser by the reins. Glancing around to make sure no-one noticed, it tucked a slim, sealed packet into its doublet under its cloak, vaulted into the saddle and swung the animal's head round, spurring it out of the courtyard.

Sybil, standing at the window of her bedchamber, watched it out of sight and nodded in satisfaction. The process of freeing the Princess from that odious husband of hers had been set in motion at last. The game was afoot.

The game was afoot. Let Spain try counter that gambit.


	10. X: Black Bulls IX

**_Chapter IX_ **

_Asturias, February 1509_

_“Su Alteza, el Consorte de Asturias!”_

Juana looked up from her desk and beamed as her husband entered the room.

“George, darling,” She waved away his bow and turned her face up to his for a kiss.

“How goes the matter of statecraft?” he chuckled, cupping her cheek in one hand.

“I’m planning our upcoming visit to England at the moment. Should you like to spend some time with our siblings at Ludlow, if we can arrange it?”

George grinned, “You know I would. I’ve missed Annabelle.”

“I thought you might be pleased. I’ll ask to have it added to our itinerary.”

“I imagine your mother will want us to. Goodness knows she’ll want to save the English alliance if she can. Which means she’ll want us to try to smooth things over between Anne and John.”

“George? What aren’t you telling me?”

Juana looked up at her husband, alarmed by the foreboding in his voice. He sighed, slipping his hand down from her cheek to her wrist. He stilled her quill as he pulled a thin sheaf of parchment from his doublet. Juana caught a glimpse of it as he unfolded it. It was covered in her sister-in-law’s flowing script, though the words made no sense.

“Anne and I used to use this cipher in letters when we were children. It was her own invention.”

“What does she say?” Juana pressed, seeing George’s eyes soften with nostalgia and wishing to get to the heart of the matter before she lost him to reminiscing.

“That her marriage to John is intolerable. That she can’t, in all good conscience, be expected to stay married to him. She’s refusing to share his bed and has sent a lawyer to Rome to petition the Flamenica for an annulment.”

Juana’s jaw dropped, “She’s what?!”

“She has the right to. She’ll be sixteen next month. If she truly feels that our mother made a mistake by wedding her to John, now would be the time for her to say so.”

George looked down at Juana. She was ashen with shock, jaw working silently as she struggled to process his revelation.

Impulsively, he dropped to his knees before her, arms outstretched, palms turned up in supplication.

“Juana, _querida,_ please. Don’t let this come between us. I’ll not support Anne in her quest, not if you don’t want me to. But I warn you, Anne’s a stubborn little thing. She’ll not give up on this.”

Juana, recalled to herself by his impassioned plea, blinked. She was stunned to see her husband on his knees to her. She chuckled, then reached down and pulled him up to her.

“Peace, _guapo,_ peace. You need not worry that I will turn against you over this. My brother was always… a challenge to deal with, even as a child. Madre spoiled him and that tainted his nature.  I’d hoped he’d have grown up, but now you’re telling me it seems like he hasn’t. If he really is the way he used to be, then, in truth, I’m hardly surprised that Anne finds him hard to deal with. We’ll go to Ludlow and speak to them both, away from your mother’s adherents. And I’ll tell you this now.  I won’t risk Anglo-Spanish relations over my brother’s blasted arrogance, if it is still rearing its head.”

George was about to thank his wife fervently when she held up a warning hand.

“I’m not promising anything outright, despite what you might think. You’ve told me yourself that Anne can be a stubborn little thing, prone to holding grudges and sometimes irrational dislikes. I fear she might be resentful of John for no true cause. We’ll go to Ludlow and speak to them both with open minds, but if John proves to be a better husband than Anne’s letters suggest and have suggested in the past, then I’ll expect you to stand by me as I persuade our sister to take him back. Is that clear?”

George bit the inside of his cheek. Anne was his favourite sister and he wanted to support her no matter what, but he could see the sense in Juana’s words. Besides, the Spanish were a proud people. If things did go badly for his brother-in-law and John was sent home to Castile in disgrace, then openly supporting her annulment might impact on his popularity, which would in turn affect Juana’s. And he wanted to do nothing to harm her. He loved her too much for that. After several moments’ internal struggle, he nodded, with only a slight degree of reluctance.

“Fair enough. I can accept that. Let’s reserve judgement for now. But what of your mother? You’ve said nothing of how you expect her to react to this. You do intend to tell her, don’t you?”

He was startled when Juana shook her head, “ _Querida?”_

“This is for Anne and John to sort out between them. And Anne will have England while we have Spain. For the sake of the future, I’d rather not antagonise her if we don’t have to. Besides, Madre is too sick to worry about something like this just now. You know the doctors said she needed rest if she was to have any chance of a full recovery and you also know full well she’d rise from her sickbed to fight this if she knew. We’ll not tell her of this unless we have to, unless things get further than a petition.”

George felt a flicker of misgiving at the surety in Juana’s voice. Somehow, he doubted his mother-in-law would forgive being kept in the dark on this. Yet he knew his wife’s determination too. Like his sister, she was a tempestuous soul. Standing clear against her would only rile her, especially when she was swept up in one of her bursts of energy like this. It was best to let her have her head for now. Particularly since her plans would probably work to Anne’s advantage. The less time Isabella had to marshal resources against his sister’s case for an annulment, the better. Mama would no doubt be fighting her hard enough as it was.

So he said nothing, only let Juana take his hand and whisper, “I’m tired of politics. Let’s go and see the girls. Let’s go and feel like a family, if only for five minutes.”

He nodded, then impulsively tipped his head to kiss her temple as a surge of gratitude filled him.

“Thank you for taking this so well,” he murmured. Juana shrugged.

“It’s for John and Anne to sort out between them,” she repeated, “But I thought I told you I was sick and tired of politics?”

Chuckling, he slid his arm more securely under hers and escorted her from the room towards their daughters’ nursery.

* * *

Though he would have died rather than admit it, relief surged through John when he heard that Juana and George would be paying them a visit at Ludlow in the first weeks of May. Once he got Juana alone, away from the eyes of the English Court, he was sure he’d easily be able to persuade her that it was her duty to back his cause against Anne’s attempts at annulling their marriage.

_“Will she really see it like that? You never exactly endeared yourself to her,”_ A snide little voice sounded in his ear, but he quashed the thought firmly. Of course Juana would support him. They might have fought as children, but all siblings fought, didn’t they? Anyway, Juana had always nursed that foolish idea that Madre had spoilt him, just because he hadn’t been held to the same standard of behaviour as the girls. Because he hadn’t been sent away to a principality the way she and Maria had been, first to Granada and then to Oviedo, or to a convent like Catalina had, with the intention of steering her into the Church, but instead had been raised at Court in his mother’s household.  But Juana was just making mountains out of molehills, as she’d always done.   There had been nothing untoward in his upbringing. Boys were always raised by their mothers; they didn’t have to learn to be self-reliant so early, after all.  Madre hadn’t spoilt him. She hadn’t let him get away with anything. She’d just expected more of Juana because she was the Princess of Asturias, the heiress to Castile and Aragon.

Besides, this was a matter of Spain’s prestige. Juana loved Spain, she’d not want to see it dishonoured by a backward island kingdom like England. No matter what. Schoolroom squabbles meant nothing in this context.

_“Yes,”_ John thought, as he stretched languidly before rising to his feet, _“Things will be better once Juana gets here_.”

They had to be. Juana was older than Anne; she’d be able to make the younger girl see the importance of duty and the permanence of their marriage. She’d make Anne see how ridiculous the whole idea of an annulment was.

_“Anne won’t dare set me aside once Juana’s taken her in hand,”_ John told himself, _“She won’t dare.”_

* * *

“George!”

Anne’s poise deserted her the moment her brother rode into the courtyard behind Juana’s litter. She flung herself down the steps and into his arms, laughing and crying all at once as she released over six years of longing in one great rush.

Forgetting protocol, George swept her off her feet with a great bellow of joy.

“Annabelle! How you’ve grown!”

Putting her hands on his shoulders, she laughed breathlessly down at him…and then flushed scarlet as Juana, immaculately groomed for once, descended from her litter and stretched out a hand, “Princess Anne. I am pleased to meet you.”

Scrambling down from George’s hold into a semblance of a half-curtsy, Anne returned the greeting, _“Su Alteza,_ welcome to Ludlow. I am honoured to finally meet my brother’s beloved wife.”

“Please,” Juana smirked, “I think we’re past the formalities. George has told me so much about his favourite sister, I feel I know you already.”

Anne blushed, if possible, even deeper, “George has ever been my champion.”

“Then I hope you don’t mind sharing. For he promised to be mine on our wedding night!” Juana teased, and Anne waved an easy hand. She opened her mouth to reply, but John, only too aware of the damage that letting Anne charm his older sister might do to his cause and alarmed at their scandalous lack of formality, interrupted.

He sank gallantly to one knee before his older sister and saluted her fingers with the lightest of kisses.

_“Estoy encantado para verte, Su Alteza,”_ he murmured, greeting her with the respect of her official title, yet deliberately using the informal mode of speech to remind those listening exactly whose sibling the Spanish heiress really was.

_“Hermano. Esta bien?”_

He nodded, then slipped his arm under hers and led her from the courtyard before Anne could regain control of the situation. That vixen was entirely too charming for her own good.

Anne watched them go and scowled for the briefest of instants, before shrugging it off. Let John disrespect her by leaving the courtyard before her if he wanted to. His arrogance would only serve her interests in the long run. Every flash of public pride John displayed only proved him more and more unfit to rule England alongside her when the time came.  Let him be seen to spurn her authority so that when their battle over an annulment became more public knowledge, she was seen as the one who had done everything right; who had tried her hardest to make her marriage work. Who had been driven to take such a drastic step only by the direst of need.

Besides, she had her brother at her side. Nothing, not even John’s thorny arrogance, was going to spoil that for her.

Turning to George, she beamed up at him and linked her arm through his.

“Come and meet my son. I’ve already sent ahead to have him made smart for his uncle George.”

* * *

“He’s a fine little chap, Annabelle, he really is,” George praised, as he stood at his sister’s shoulder, gazing down into his nephew’s blue eyes. The latter gazed placidly back at him.

_“Almost too placidly,”_ The thought came into his head unbidden, “ _Both Cata and Ana were showing more interest in the world around them at this age.”_

Refusing to voice the thought, however, he kept his tone determinedly jovial as he continued, “I’m mortally wounded, however, that you didn’t think to name him after his most handsome uncle. I thought we’d had an agreement; I’d name my first daughter for you and you’d name your first son for me.”

“Did we? That’s news to me!” Anne teased, swatting at him irritably as he danced out of reach, “Oh stop! You’re insufferable. You know I’ve admired the Lionheart since I was a little girl!”

“I know, I know. I was only teasing!” George pretended contrition, ruffling her hair a little, as he used to in their nursery days. Anne, too, momentarily relived the carefree days of their childhood by glaring at him in retaliation, before returning her attention to the babe in her arms.

“He’s my little gerfalcon, aren’t you, Dickon? You’ll be as brave and strong as the Lionheart one day, won’t you? Yes you will!”

Her tone was gay, but something about it struck George as forced, and, when he thought about it, he realised that Anne had barely moved since she had begun to hold Richard. Indeed, the boy had been placed in her arms, rather than Anne picking him up herself. And her arms were locked round him in a way that, although it looked secure enough, could hardly be comfortable for either of them. They were barely touching. Not for Anne the comfortable closeness that Juana had so quickly developed with both Ana and Cata. It was almost as though she was afraid she might break him if she handled him wrong – or at all, even. In a way, George could understand her trepidation. He’d felt the same after Ana had been born. But it had taken him a couple of weeks to get over, at the most. Richard was almost five months old. The fact that Annabelle still felt like that was, perhaps, a cause for alarm, especially since she was usually so fearless. Maybe he ought to have Juana have a word with her and help her adjust to motherhood.

George was jolted out of his musings by Richard, finally frustrated by his mother’s awkward posture, opening his mouth and whimpering. Rather than listen to his cues, however, Anne stiffened even further. In response, Richard’s whimpers turned to full-blown wails. George moved to help, but almost at the first note of Richard’s distress, the door opened and his nurse Mistress Bowen swept into the room, plucking him from his mother’s unresponsive arms with an ease born of long practice.

His plaintive cries eased immediately and Anne’s shoulders slumped in something George feared was helpless, barely disguised relief.

“Does he eat well? Sleep well?” she asked. The older woman nodded reassuringly.

“I’ve no complaints, Your Highness. Regular as clockwork, His Highness is. He took affright at something in the shadows last night, but Sir Henry soon chased that monster away, did he not, my Prince?”

Mistress Bowen’s voice melted as she bounced the now gurgling child in her arms. Anne’s face softened, though something still haunted the backs of her eyes.

“Really? Then I suppose I had better thank him, hadn’t I? Would you fetch him for me, Mistress?”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Mistress Bowen bobbed an awkward curtsy, handed Richard over to George, who held his arms out invitingly and scurried from the room. A moment later, a firm tread sounded in the passageway outside. A giant of a man with dark red-gold hair entered, sinking to one knee before Anne.

“You wanted to see me, Your Highness?”

“Yes. I hear I have you to thank for banishing my son’s night terrors.”

“It was nothing, My Lady. I achieved my end by the simple expedient of having another torch brought to light his room. I would that all my duties towards His Grace might one day be fulfilled so easily.”

The young man chuckled and Anne laughed with him, before raising him up and turning him to face George.

“Sir Henry, this is my brother, the Consort of Asturias. George, this is Sir Henry Plantagenet, Captain of my son’s Household Guard. At least, he will be once Richard is old enough to have a household of his own.”

George inclined his head, noting with surprise that, for all the man’s lithe grace and confidence, he was scarcely older than Anne. Awfully young for such great responsibility. But then, the Plantagenets were a prominent Welsh family; the Countesses of March and Richmond. That probably explained Sir Henry’s appointment.

“I have a favour to ask of Your Highness,” Henry’s voice broke into George’s musings and he turned, startled, to see that the younger man’s eyes were fixed on Anne.

Anne waved a hand and George, catching sight of her gaze as she did it, jumped slightly to realise that it was indulgent. Indeed, had he not known his sister better, he might have thought she was consciously echoing the gaze with which he and Juana often regarded one another.

Sir Henry bowed once more, “I thank Your Grace. I recently received some sad news. My brother Arthur and his wife Lady Katherine have died of the putrid throat.”

Anne’s face closed in sympathy at his grave words. She moved forward unconsciously, only to pause as Henry held up his hand, “No, Your Grace. Let me finish and ask my boon before you seek to comfort me with empty words. Lady Katherine was an orphaned niece of the Scottish Ambassador. She had no other direct family and was no great heiress in her own right. Hence why she was able to move to March to live with my brother rather than vice versa. Yet now, she and Arthur leave behind them, in their turn, a single daughter, a child not yet four years old. They appointed me her guardian in their wills. With Your Highness’s permission, I should like to ride to fetch her here to Ludlow.”

“But why you, Sir Henry? Why have you been named your niece’s guardian? Would her parents not rather have entrusted her to the care of Lady Margaret or even Lady Mary?”

Anne’s brow furrowed in confusion. Sir Henry spread his hands, “I know not, Madam, but my brother and I were close as children. I would not want to dishonour his memory now by disregarding his and Katherine’s wishes regarding the care of little Elizabeth.”

“No, no, of course you would not,” Anne replied hastily. There was a definitely placatory note in her voice and again, George was surprised to hear it. Placating people had never been a strength of the little sister he remembered.

“Very well, Sir Henry. You have my permission. Go and collect Mistress Elizabeth and bring her here to Ludlow. I will ensure there is a house in the town furnished and ready for her use upon your return.”

“Your Highness is too gracious!” Sir Henry gasped, but Anne shrugged.

“Nonsense. It is my duty to see to the welfare of my future subjects. Besides, as a mother myself, how could I, in all conscience, neglect a motherless little girl such as your niece? Go, Sir Henry. Go, and take my blessings and my condolences with you.”

“Your Highness,” Sir Henry knelt swiftly to receive Anne’s palm on his bent head, then leapt lightly to his feet and strode from the room.

Anne watched him go and chuckled lightly to herself, “My heart might be breaking for that little girl, but she is lucky indeed to have a protector as gallant as her uncle.”

“Anne?” Caught off guard, George couldn’t help the question, but his younger sister ignored him, simply sweeping from the nursery without another word, not even to farewell her son, who still lay, quiet and obedient, in George’s arms.

* * *

_“You see what I have to deal with? I’ve never known a girl so spoilt and rude. She’d have ignored me completely in the yard if I hadn’t insisted on greeting you!”_ John burst out in a torrent of vicious Spanish the moment he and Juana had reached the relative privacy of the corridor linking his rooms with hers.

_“I thought she was charming. She’s clearly extremely fond of her older brother. And frankly, brother, your own manners left a fair bit to be desired,”_ Juana pulled her arm from John’s and marched primly at his side, trying to convey disapproval with her body language as much as her words. God knew she’d need both to have any effect if John of Wales was anything like the brother she remembered.

_“How would you have me treat her? She’s a child; a spiteful brat of a child! She’s never treated me with respect or allowed me any of my rightful power. I’m sick of it!”_

_“And so you retaliate by blatantly disrespecting her yourself? Need I remind you which of you is the powerful one?”_

_“I’m of far better blood than she is!”_

_“Do you really think that matters? Here in England, where her mother is the unchallenged Queen and she the recognised heiress to the throne, do you really think that matters? Honestly! I knew Madre had spoilt you, but I didn’t realise she’d ruined you. You call Anne the child, but I wonder. Did you ever even **try** to make your marriage work?”_

_“Of course I did! Is it my fault the Howard brat’s too proud to do what’s expected of her and yield some power to me? I’m supposed to be her partner!”_

_“No, you’re supposed to be her Consort! Whatever you may think, you are not Papa! You hold your power through her, not in your own right!”_

_“I told you, she doesn’t give me any!  She was a child when we came to Ludlow. I was a grown man. I should have been made head of the Welsh Council then, all those years ago. Yet I was refused the role and even now she’s made it damn clear I only hold my seat because she dare not defy tradition by denying me one!”_

_“You wanted her to name you Head of the Council? When she was too young even to take her seat? That’s unthinkable! If George had acted like that towards me, he’d have been kicked out of Asturias so fast his head was spinning. Mama would have sent him into the army to stamp the airs out of him. Dios, John, you call her arrogant, but listen to yourself! If this is how you treat her, I’m hardly surprised she wants to get rid of you!”_

John sprang back from her as though she’d slapped him, open-mouthed.

_“Madre wouldn’t let her! There’s no way Anne would be brazen enough to risk annulling our marriage with Spain against her. Not to mention her own mother.”_

_“I wouldn’t be so sure. Anne seems a confident enough young lady. Besides, Madre doesn’t know of her plans. She’s been too sick for anyone to tell her. And I, for one, have no intention of supporting you.”_

_“I’m your brother!”_

_“Yes. I was supposed to be able to rely on you to promote Spanish interests in England. Since you can’t even hold a civil conversation with your wife in public, that’s clearly not going to happen.  I-”_

John cut her off, damson with fury.

_“How can you betray me like this? This is a matter of Spanish honour!”_

_“Precisely! I am not going to risk our alliance with England over something as trivial as your inability to smother your pride,”_ Juana spoke over him coolly, voice hard and smooth as marble, “ _You had five years to make Anne your friend before she was your wife in more than name. Five years, brother.  Anyone who can’t even manage a task that simple doesn’t deserve to be ruling a lordship, never mind a principality or a country! If you want my advice, you’ll go to Anne, cap in hand, and pray you haven’t burned your bridges with her completely and that she’s still willing to settle something on you as part of the annulment agreement.”_

_“And if I don’t?”_ John’s tone was one of bravado, but it suddenly rang hollow. Juana pinched his chin hard between pointed fingers and forced him to look at her.

“ _Then God have mercy on you, brother. But I tell you this. I will not jeopardise the English alliance any further, nor my own marriage, by offering you a home in Spain if you do not arrange something.”_

John made to interrupt, but Juana continued, with such finality in her voice that it was clear the conversation was over, “ _No Prince of Castile or Aragon has ever been sent home in disgrace. I will not have it said that my brother was the first.”_

* * *

_"_ _Holy Mother? This has just arrived from England.”_

Her Holiness Beata IX turned to her Secretary and accepted the thin sheaf of parchment. Breaking the seal afresh, she scanned the first few lines and then looked up, face carefully impassive.

_“Has this been delivered?”_

_“Yes, Holy Mother. By a Master Thomas Wykes. He waits outside.”_

_“A Master Wykes. How very surprising.”_ Beata arched an eyebrow, _“Very well. Send him in. Let’s hear what he has to say on his young mistress’s behalf.”_

 


	11. XI: Black Bulls X

**Chapter X**

_Summer 1509_

"Your Highness, news has just come from Milford Haven."

Anne was accosted on the way back from a hawking trip by the Countess of Pembroke, who intercepted her as she drew rein in the yard, drawing her aside from her ladies.

"I apologise for the intrusion, Your Highness, but the harbour mistress insisted it was urgent. She awaits Your Grace in the solar."

Anne nodded and handed her hawk back to Henry, smiling up at him and laughing as he bowed, "You'll have to excuse me, Sir Henry. Matters of State are calling. Can I trust you to look after Artemis for me?"

"As you do your son or as you would your heart, were I that lucky, Your Grace," Henry replied, careful to keep his voice jocular so that there could be no doubt as to the innocence of his flirtation.

Anne dimpled up at him as she slid from the saddle, then pressed her fingers lightly to his forearm and hurried from the courtyard. He exhaled deeply as he watched her go, his muscles only relaxing when she vanished from sight.

Did she know what an effect she had on him? Or was she utterly unconscious of it? Did she realise that, every time she was within twenty paces of him, his whole body tautened in anticipation?

"Probably not," he chided himself as he went to hand her hawk back to the Lady Falconer, "After all, she's barely more than a child."

For she _was_ barely more than a child. For all she was already a wife and mother, Anne – Her Highness, Henry corrected himself sternly - was surprisingly innocent in many, many ways. But then, it was common knowledge that her marriage to the Consort of Wales left a lot to be desired. No doubt she had no idea of what kind of delight there could be in an intimate relationship with the opposite sex. She probably wanted no more than warmth and companionship from him, however marked her preference for his company. However easily she blushed at his teasing, even as she retorted as merrily as quicksilver.

To Henry's surprise, a surge of protectiveness filled him as he turned back from the mews and began to follow in the same direction the young Princess had taken. If it was warmth and companionship she was after, then warmth and companionship he would give her. Even if it meant people muttering that he was neglecting his duties to Prince Richard. Even if it meant denying the strength of his own feelings for all he was worth, even to himself.

* * *

 

Sweeping into the solar, Anne tossed her plumed hat on to the table and stripped off her leather hawking gloves. Striding over to the fireplace, she leaned against it for a moment, fighting the inexplicable heat that was rising in her cheeks. Only when she was sure she had herself under control enough for her features to be as smooth as chalk, smooth enough, in other words, to make even Lady Parr proud of her poise, did she turn to the other occupant of the room and summon her to her side with a gracious smile and an outstretched hand.

"Mistress Fitzwilliam. I am told you bring me some news. I trust it is news I shall welcome?"

"I hope so, Your Highness. Master Cromwell bade me bring it direct to Your Grace and place it in the hands of no other."

"He didn't see fit to come himself?" Suddenly suspicious, Anne withdrew her hand. Mistress Fitzwilliam spread her hands.

"Alas, My Lady, Master Cromwell was struck down by an ague the night his ship anchored. He feared infecting Your Grace's household, so dared not ride himself. Instead, he entrusted the message to me."

Despite herself, Anne let her fear flicker in her eyes. She'd entrusted her quest for an annulment to Master Cromwell, hoping that as a man, he might escape detection more easily. Surely none would think to suspect the bolder, less subtle sex of having been entrusted with a mission as delicate as this. At least not as more than a simple messenger. To hear that he was ill, that he'd entrusted this message to Mistress Fitzwilliam…her heart began to race. It had to be bad news. It had to be, for surely if it was good, he'd have forced himself on to a horse and ridden like the wind to tell her, fear of contagion be damned! Surely his delay meant nothing more than that he feared her reaction? Surely?

In two quick strides, she was behind the table that dominated the centre of the room, gripping the back of the chair that stood at its head.

"Speak, Mistress Fitzwilliam," she begged, barely able to keep her voice from shaking, "For pity's sake…"

"Master Cromwell bade me tell Your Grace that the Holy Mother has given your case due consideration. Her Holiness has ruled that Magdalene Lucretia Orsini shall come to England. Your Highness and His Highness the Consort shall both have the opportunity to argue your cases before Her Eminence the Magdalene, the Abbess of Canterbury and sundry other members of the Church. Madame Orsini will then have the right to rule on the legality of Your Highnesses' union in Her Holiness's stead."

For a moment, Anne couldn't speak. The colour drained from her cheeks, then rushed back into them as she gasped, breathless with delight. Heedless of protocol, she threw her arms around Mistress Fitzwilliam.

"You're as welcome here as the Angel Gabriel!" she cried, before racing to the door and flinging it open.

"Bring me twenty gold angels for Mistress Fitzwilliam! Immediately!"

Within moments, a heavy velvet purse was being pressed into the older woman's hand and Anne was kissing her heartily on both cheeks.

"You can tell Master Cromwell that there's double that waiting for him above his usual fee when he has recovered enough to come and fetch it," she announced, "God be with you. God bless you both!"

Just then, Lady Parr, alerted by the unusual bustle, knocked and entered.

"Your Highness? May I inquire as to what is going on?"

Anne swung round to her, "Mistress Fitzwilliam has just brought me some joyous news from Milford Haven. She'll be dining here tonight. Would you also be so good as to see there is a chamber prepared for her before she returns to her duties in the morning?"

She had taken a deep breath before she turned to her former governess. With it, she had regained her self-control. Gone was the giddy child shrieking rapturously. In her place stood the chatelaine of Ludlow, issuing orders in a tone that brooked no disapproval. Lady Parr's curiosity was far from assuaged, but in the face of Anne's poise, there was nothing she could do. Her official position as Anne's governess had ended with the latter's sixteenth birthday several months earlier. While Anne still tolerated her presence in the Welsh household, they had never been close. Unlike other former governesses she had heard of or known, there was no particular intimacy between her and her charge that she could presume upon to worm more information out of the Princess than she was willing to confide.

She curtsied, face blank to hide her disappointment, "Very good, Your Highness. I'll see to it at once."

"Thank you, Lady Parr," Anne replied coolly, "Send the Graces into me on your way out, would you?"

Lady Parr nodded and withdrew, hiding a smile at Anne's unconscious use of the name she had christened her companions when, as they grew to womanhood, each had begun to blossom in a variety of the womanly arts. Lady Parr hadn't heard Anne use it in years either. There was more proof, if ever it were needed, that something had greatly excited her former charge.

Without commenting, however, she swept from the room, to be replaced, a short time later, by Sybil, Susan, Meg and Eliza, all of whom, without needing to be told, knew that Anne was over the moon. They could all read their friend's body language well enough for that.

"Girls. This is Mistress Fitzwilliam. She brings us joyous news from Master Cromwell," Anne waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the older woman and the quartet nodded graciously. They wasted no time in ushering her out of the room, however. Meg ensured the door was shut behind her and then they clustered eagerly around Anne. For a moment, the scene echoed countless instances during their childhood when Anne and Sybil had been the leaders of their nursery and schoolroom games.

"I'm free! I'm going to be free!" Anne suddenly sang out, whirling round to catch at Sybil's hands, "Lucretia Orsini is coming to England to rule on my marriage and then I shall be free!"

"She hasn't ruled on it yet," Eliza chuckled, "She might yet order you back to John's bed."

"Oh, don't be silly. That would be a perversion of justice. Everyone knows I was married under the age of consent and against my will. You mark my words, I'll be a free woman within the twelvemonth!!"

"Shall we order a feast to celebrate?" Meg smirked, uncharacteristically encouraging Anne's more spiteful side. Susan shot her a wounded look. It was usually Meg who played the compassionate one, who backed her up when she tried to caution Anne. Sybil only ever encouraged Her Highness, while Eliza generally tried to keep herself aloof from their more heated debates. To have Meg encouraging Anne in her spite, almost felt, to Susan, like a betrayal.

To Meg, however, it was one of the rare occasions she felt truly part of Anne's group. Being a year younger than the others, she had always been the baby of their circle; tolerated, even petted and indulged, but never quite one of them in the way she might have hoped. Indulging Anne now was her way of reminding Sybil, Eliza and even Susan that she had just as much right to stake a claim to Anne's affections as they did.

Anne laughed at her words and flushed with pleasure, "Why not? Not a full feast, that could be premature, but the best that Ludlow can proffer at such short notice. One of you go and tell the cooks that I want oyster patties for supper. Oyster patties and swan and rabbit in cider and all my other favourite dishes."

"I'll do it," Susan offered, instantly grateful for an excuse to escape the room, where the overpowering sense of giddy triumph was threatening to make her sick.

Anne grinned at her, but Susan didn't return the smile, merely slipped from the room.

It wasn't that she wouldn't be pleased to see Anne free of her marriage, but surely there had to be a more tasteful way of going about it than this gloating cloak-and-dagger?"

And that was another thing. If Master Cromwell had had to entrust his message to Mistress Fitzwilliam, surely she would have had to inform the Queen, even if only to warn her of Madame Orsini's impending arrival? Of course she would. And there wasn't a snowball's chance in Hell of Her Majesty letting this pass without challenge. Anne's defiance, for so her mother would certainly see it, would no longer go ignored. It was only to be hoped that she had enough strength to stop the whole scheme crashing around her ears.

* * *

Thomas knew the news from Wales was bad when Elizabeth crashed through the doors of his study, face as black as a Christmas thunderstorm.

He sprang to his feet and would have gone to her, but she waved him back, furious.

"Do you know what your daughter's done now? Do you?"

Thomas restrained himself from asking. He knew letting Elizabeth spill her fury out was often the better method. She brandished a letter with the violet seal of Rome at him alongside their elder daughter's missive.

"She's written to Rome pleading for an annulment!"

Thomas gulped. Of all the news it could have been, that wasn't the one he'd been expecting. He knew, of course, that Anne's relationship with John of Castile was far from ideal, but he had hoped that Richard's birth the previous December had been a sign that they were beginning to work things out between them. It was said, after all, that a woman found it much easier to conceive if she found pleasure in her marital bed, and considering Anne and John had been sharing a bed for over a year before she had even quickened… He'd hoped they'd begun to work through their differences. Now this letter from Her Holiness strongly suggested otherwise.

"What does Rome say?" he murmured, stepping forward to take the letter from his wife's suddenly nerveless hand. She let him, too intent upon her tirade against their older daughter to notice much else.

"They're sending a Magdalene to Wales to hear her case and John's and rule upon it in Her Holiness's stead. But that's beside the point. Madame Orsini will never see Anne's case as anything more than the foolish whims of an overindulged child. I have no fear of that."

"I think you might be wrong there," Thomas interjected calmly, looking up from the letter, "The fact that Her Holiness has considered Anne's petition and written to her directly rather than through you; without asking for your advice, even, suggests to me that she, at least, considers Anne a woman in her own right, rather than the child you still seem to think she is. More, if she's sending a Magdalene to Wales, Her Holiness is treating the case as though it has merit. She's handling this as rather more than the 'foolish whims of an overindulged child', it seems to me."

Stunned into silence for a moment, Elizabeth had to admit the sense of her husband's words. Heart pounding in sudden alarm, she began to consider what her fellow monarchs might make of the case, if word spread beyond the borders of England and Rome. Spain would stand with John, of course. It was a matter of honour for them. And the smaller city states were unlikely to care enough to get involved one way or the other. But James of Scotland was bound to support her daughter. God only knew he'd been reluctant enough to take her sister as his bride instead. No doubt he'd be delighted to help Anne free herself of the yoke of her Spanish husband, if only to punish those he saw as responsible for the change in the treaty all those years ago. And France, well, anything that annoyed Spain was only to be encouraged, in their view. Although that did perhaps mean that the Duchesses of Burgundy and Brittany, in turn, would back John in an attempt to frustrate French ambitions.

And then it crashed over her in a wave of relief. This wasn't just about Anne and John anymore. How could her daughter be so unnatural as to try to separate a child from their father at so young an age? Surely Anne had to stay with John, if only for Richard's sake?

But when she turned to say as much to her husband, it was to find he had already read her mind.

"Anne would never keep John from visiting Richard. You know she would not. You know she dotes on her boy. Do you really think that any mother who loves her children as much as she does Richard could ever truly bar them from having contact with their father?"

Elizabeth paused, colour draining momentarily from her cheeks as she registered the hidden barb behind his words. At last, she half-raised a hand to concede the point, "Maybe not. Maybe you're right there. Still, I can't believe Anne would do something like this! I can't believe she'd have the nerve to go behind my back like this! I've half a mind to ride to Ludlow and slap some sense into her! God's Blood! I knew she was wilful, but I thought I'd taught her a stronger sense of duty than this!"

"You have," Thomas soothed. "And she did her duty. She did her duty and married Prince John. But she's sixteen now. A woman grown. Like it or not, Elizabeth, we have to let her at least petition for an annulment. If you're lucky, Madame Orsini will find in John's favour. But even if she doesn't, at least this will be a painless way of separating them. At least we won't be risking war with the Spanish. Even Isabella can't deny that by the law of the Church, the Holy Mother has the final say in the legitimacy of all marriages. And…" Thomas continued, cutting across his wife and raising his voice, just a fraction, as she made to interrupt, "I wouldn't hold your breath that Madame Orsini will deny our daughter what she wants. Might I remind you that Her Eminence is known for both her knowledge of canon law and her sound judgement? You can be sure that she'll know as well as you or I that no match is binding unless it is entered into with the full consent of both partners. Anne never gave her consent. She spoke the words you'd drilled into her, nothing more. Moreover, she was a full three years under the Roman age of consent when she spoke them, and five beneath that prescribed by our own laws of succession."

"She swore an oath before the Lord Himself! To go back on that now is to deny her own faith! More! It's to dishonour us; to claim that we made such a bad choice for her in her spouse that she's willing to stand up in Court and testify to that fact. I would never have done that. No truly loyal daughter would."

"You, not us."

Elizabeth's head snapped up at that, but Thomas carried on, voice now dangerously cool.

"Anne's defying you, not us. I resisted the idea of a double Spanish match from the start. You know I did. As did at least half the Council. Christ, Anne herself resisted the match as much as any nine-year-old girl in her position could do. There are witnesses to that, I can assure you. I fear that too will count against you, love. Besides, the facts are plain. John has been far from an ideal partner for Anne. Even you, with your blind adoration for anything Spanish, can't deny that."

Elizabeth recoiled from him as though he'd physically struck her. The colour flamed in her cheeks and she clutched her stomach and side involuntarily as her body fought to ease a pain she was too angry to let herself pay any heed to. How could Thomas be saying these things to her? Did he not understand how vital Anne's marriage was for the standing of their House, their country? More than that, as the man who'd promised before God and the Virgin to honour and defend her, how could he be failing her now, against their own daughter?

It was only because it was Anne they were discussing, she was sure. He'd always favoured Anne; petted and indulged her; taught her to be selfish rather than to think of the good of the country. She should never have let him raise her.

"John's fathered a child on her," Blindly, she repeated her thought process from a few moments earlier. It was the only coherent argument she could form; the one fact she could cling to in a haze of pain and rage, "Madame Orsini can't possibly annul the marriage, not when it's so clearly been consummated!"

"Richard is a sickly boy who looks like he'll burn up as fast as a candle the first time a fever grips him! A boy it took Anne over a year to quicken with, despite your insistence on bedding her and John as frequently as saint's days and Anne's health would allow! A boy who can never inherit the throne! No, Elizabeth, if that's what you call doing one's duty, then I'm afraid we cannot agree! John of Castile is nowhere near the man our daughter needs him to be. He's a spoilt brat of a boy who should never have been let out of the Spanish nursery!"

Thomas paused, astounded at the huge sense of satisfaction he felt at finally speaking his mind to his wife. Blind to her barely-concealed distress, he concluded, "Ride to Ludlow and fight Anne on this if you truly feel you must, but I warn you, you ride alone. I will support you no longer. And if you manage to block her path to freedom, I shall never forgive you. Nor, I fear, will the rest of the country."

For the first time in their marriage, Thomas stormed to the door without waiting for Elizabeth to dismiss him. Even as he wrenched the door open, however, he threw one final taunt over his shoulder.

"It's time for you to choose, Elizabeth. Which is more important to you? Appeasing Spain or ruling England?"

The door slammed to behind him before she could muster a response. Weak at the knees with shock, Elizabeth sank to the floor, skirts pooling around her.

A guttural howl, half agony, half anguish, escaped her lips despite her best efforts to choke it back. Was this really how things were going to be? After all these years, was it really going to be Anne's marital troubles that broke her and Thomas apart?


	12. XII: Black Bulls XI

**Chapter XI**

“I’m going to tell him. We’re talking about his marriage – he deserves to at least have a chance to muster a defence for it!”” Susan shook off Eliza’s hand and wrenched away to the door, flushed with agitation.

Eliza sprang in front of her, placing another restraining hand on her arm, “Anne will never forgive you for going behind her back. You know that, don’t you? If she’s kept this from John, she must have had her reasons!”

“No, she’s just being a spiteful little girl!”

Eliza fell back at the venom in Susan’s voice. She’d known the other girl was, like her, somewhat uncomfortable with the secrecy surrounding Anne’s quest for an annulment, but she’d never considered that her feelings might boil over in quite this manner. They were Anne’s favourite ladies, after all, her closest confidantes. Whatever their private feelings about their mistress’s conduct, it was their job to be loyal to her. They had to stand with her, even when nobody else would. At least, that’s what Eliza had told herself when her own qualms about how this matter was being handled had reared their heads. She’d never imagined – or dared to imagine – that she had any other choice.

Susan saw Eliza flinch and forced herself to rein in her temper, reminding herself that it was Anne she was really angry at. Anne, not Eliza.

“Look,” she murmured more patiently, “You can’t honestly tell me that you’re comfortable with all this cloak-and-dagger?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Exactly. And if Madame Orsini is to come to England, do you think Her Holiness will have failed to inform the Queen of that?”

“Again, no…”

“And just how exactly do you imagine Her Grace will take it?”

At that, Eliza cocked a half-sardonic eyebrow. Her Majesty was not the most well-thought of person at Ludlow, at least not by the younger generation. Not after how badly she’d handled the fiasco that was Anne’s marriage. “Badly, I should imagine.”

“And how much worse do you think it will be if she finds out that Anne hasn’t even bothered to inform John of her quest for an annulment?”

“He must know!” Eliza protested, “It’s the talk of the town!”

“He may not know that Madame Orsini’s on her way. That’s a fairly recent development. I feel it’s only courteous to inform him. Besides,” and here Susan’s lips curved into a smirk despite her best efforts to contain it, “It’s not like he’ll win, is it? We all know how horrible he’s been to Anne.”

Sharing her mirth, Eliza stepped aside, “Very well. Go and be an angel of mercy, then. I’ll make your excuses to Anne.”

* * *

“ _My Lord? Lady De La Pole is here to see you.”_

John looked up in surprise at Francesco’s murmured announcement, “ _Lady Susanna? What’s she doing here? I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of any of Anne’s household for weeks.”_

 _“I haven’t the faintest idea, Sir, but she insists it’s important,”_ Francesco spread his hands, “ _Shall I deign to let her in?”_

John considered. Part of him wanted to turn Susanna away, to shun her as so many of Anne’s household had shunned him in recent weeks. Yet it couldn’t be denied that she was one of Anne’s closest companions. If anyone knew of Anne’s doings and could help him prepare for them, it would be Susanna. Not that his mother would let Anne do anything to him, of course, but it was always well to be beforehand, especially given Anne’s blasted pride and the fact that Juana didn’t seem inclined to help him if their mother, for some reason, didn’t insist upon it.

_“Let her in, Francesco. Let’s see what tricks the Howard chit’s got up her sleeve this time. No doubt the Flamenica has made her see sense and ordered her back to my bed.”_

As he spoke, he stood up, crossing the room to the fireplace. He leaned against it, not for the heat, but because his most lasting memory of his father was of him commanding a room of soldiers from beside a fire and he’d always wanted to emulate that. True, Lady Susanna wasn’t a troop of soldiers, but given the lines that were being drawn at Ludlow, perhaps she could be considered an envoy from the opposing camp, at the very least.

His musings were interrupted by Susanna entering the room. He was pleased to see her drop him a much deeper curtsy than she would have done if she’d been in her mistress’s company.  That just proved Anne was a bad influence on her household.

“Lady Susanna,” he greeted coolly, extending his hand so that she had no choice to step close enough to him to bend her head and kiss his knuckles, “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“Your Grace,” Susan breathed, “I come to bring you news I feel you ought to know regarding the Princess’s quest for an annulment.”

“She hasn’t given it up as a lost cause then?”

John wished he’d bitten back the impulsive words the moment he saw the way Susanna’s face closed at them.

 _“Fool!”_ he cursed himself silently, “ _This young woman might be bringing you invaluable information and yet you alienate her? Dios, Papa was right. You’ll never make a statesman. It’s a good job God’s on your side!”_

He didn’t show his inner frustration to Susanna, however, only waved her to a seat in silent, belated courtesy. She took it, albeit more hesitantly than she might have done a few moments earlier.

“Her Highness hasn’t given up on her quest for an annulment, no,” she murmured, as John, control of the room asserted, sat down across from her, “Indeed, Her Holiness the Flamenica has taken Anne’s petition more seriously than many believed she would.”

“Her Holiness has written to Anne directly?”

For possibly the first time, John felt flickerings of true unease. If the Holy Mother was communicating with his wife in her own right, rather than through her mother, then it meant she regarded Anne as an adult, as old enough to be taken seriously. If the matter essentially came down to Anne’s word against his, without the protective might of Spain behind him…Well, John had his pride, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew the facts were stacked against him. After all, Anne had only been nine when they said their vows.

His cruelty to her on their wedding night never even entered his head. If he thought about the night at all, it was to dismiss it instantly. She’d been fourteen then, old enough to consent. He’d been claiming his rights as her Consort, nothing more.  And, besides, he hastened to reassure himself, hadn’t he done his duty by siring a child on her? Of course, he had.

True, it was a shame Richard was so weak and sickly, but he lived, which was a good omen for the future. If Anne would only do what she ought and allow him to bed her more often, they’d have a strong girl sooner rather than later. Years of precedent said they would, for neither England nor Spain had ever lacked for daughters. And once their little Countess arrived, Anne would have no choice but to give him the power that was his right as her Consort and the father of her heiress.

John was so wrapped up in his new musings on a rosy future that he almost missed Susanna’s next words.

“The Flamenica is sending Her Eminence the Magdalene, Lucretia Orsini to Wales so that Your Highnesses may both present your cases before a court. Madame Orsini will then have the licence to rule on Your Highness’s marriage in the name of Rome. In the meantime, Your Graces have been forbidden from sharing a bed.”

Susan’s words dropped like a stone into the silence. John blinked, mouth dropping open.

“We’re not to share a bed?”

“No, Sir. Her Holiness does not want to risk there being another child of Your Highness’s marriage until it is ruled upon.”

John gulped, unable to fully keep his composure in the face of such awful news. The possibility of being forbidden from sharing his wife’s bed during this process had never crossed his mind before. He’d never dreamed that Anne’s petition might actually be given credence by the Flamenica, that his mother and their family’s Magdalenes, including his own aunt Catalina, wouldn’t be able to have it laughed out of Santa Maria Maggiore.

Frozen with impotent rage, he was only vaguely aware of Lady Susanna standing up and making her excuses, of himself rising in token courtesy and calling Diego to see her out.

It was the sound of the door closing behind her that jolted him out of his reverie.

Snatching up the nearest goblet, he flung it across the room, feeling a certain hollow satisfaction when the glass shattered, sending blood-red claret pooling across the flagstones.

“Damn that spoiled bitch!” he cursed. “Damn her to Hell! And Damn Europe for pandering to her!”

* * *

Anne faced her mother across the desk in her private audience chamber, spine ramrod-straight. That, however, was the only true hint of her anger. Every other inch of her was treating the Queen with icy politeness.

“I beg your pardon, Madam, for not having informed you of my plans sooner. However, I believed that, at sixteen, I was old enough to handle a matter of such personal import myself. I even thought you might be proud of me for assuming control of my own affairs. After all, was it not in order that I might learn to wield such decorous authority that Your Majesty allowed me to begin to head the Welsh Council in more than name two years ago?”

Elizabeth faltered, taken aback by her eldest daughter’s poise. With a shock, she realised that, although it had been easy, eight, five or even two years ago, to override Anne’s impotent storms of protest and dismiss them as naught more than the ranting tantrums of a wilful child, that was no longer the case. Finding the words to refute the determined cool in the onyx orbs facing her was not quite so simple.

But she had to try. For the sake of her own standing, both at home and abroad, she had to try. If she was to be taken seriously by her fellow monarchs, she couldn’t afford to allow her heiress to defy her so publicly.

“Does John know what steps you’ve taken? Has he agreed to this – this _trial_?”

Elizabeth sneered the last word as though the mere sound of it crossing her lips might taint her, before continuing, “Or are you simply dragging his name through the mud for your own gain, without even giving him a chance to muster a fair defence?”

“John has been informed,” Anne responded icily, “He has yet to tell me what he thinks of my plans, but I see no reason why he should not agree, as I have done, to abide by Madame Orsini’s decision, whatever it may be. After all, despite his myriad of faults, it cannot be said that a lack of piety is among them.”

A deathly pause ensued. Anne sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Susanna. Having the other girl sneak behind her back to tell John about Madame Orsini’s impending visit had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Much though she resented giving John more than the minimum time to muster any sort of counter to her attack on his right and aptitude to be her husband, Susanna’s actions had at least allowed her to greet her mother’s strident fury with more grace than she might otherwise have been able to. To diffuse it more effectively. Elizabeth, meanwhile, was racking her brains to find another argument to dissuade her fierce elder daughter from her chosen course of action.

“Is a public trial really the right way to go about this?” she ventured at last, keeping a firm hand on her ire and forcing her voice to remain smooth, “If you are insistent on giving evidence to Her Eminence the Magdalene, would a private audience not be a more fitting venue for a matter as personal as this?”

“I’m afraid not, Lady Mother,” Anne countered silkily, having been well-versed by Master Wykes in how to respond to this suggestion, “A public court is what Her Holiness has ordered and a public court it must be, for everything has to be seen to be overt and fully legal. We cannot later have it said that either Rome or John or I was compromised in any way.”

With that, she pushed herself away from the desk and dropped a swift half-curtsy.

“Now, I believe we have covered all the available ground, Madam. Your Grace has said your piece and I have heard you out, as any obedient daughter must, but you will not sway me from my course. I regret that you have had a wasted journey. If that will be all…”

Elizabeth blinked at Anne’s audacity at closing the conversation so promptly, “I am the Queen! You cannot dismiss me as though I were your servant!”

“No, Madam, I cannot,” Anne agreed softly. “However, I am the invested Princess of Wales and of age. Are we not in Ludlow Castle, my home and the heart of my demesne? I rather fear that, if Your Grace wishes me to be taken seriously by the Marcher nobles, you have no choice but to yield graciously in matters as slight as these. So if Your Majesty would be so good as to excuse me…” Anne’s voice trailed off. She dipped another curtsy and was gone before her mother could offer any further protest.

Sybil, who had naturally been hovering outside, desperate to overhear what was going on, gaped at her as she came out. Anne leaving a room before her mother was almost unheard of.

“Did you just dismiss your mother? I know you’re brave, but…”

“We’ll not discuss it now,” Anne hissed, anxious to be gone before her mother had a chance to recover from the shock of being so vehemently defied, “Have my horse fetched, I’m going for a ride.”

Without another word, she swept past Sybil, who knew better than to press her, instead simply nodding and sending a page scurrying to the stables.

* * *

Henry shifted Bessie in his arms, patting her red-gold hair where it was escaping the confines of her linen mobcap.

“Where shall we go exploring today, then? Hmm?”

The question was a ritualistic one between them, for in the weeks since Henry had installed the little Elizabeth Sinclair and her nurse in a house in the town below Ludlow Castle, he had taken to visiting every afternoon to take his little niece out for an exploration of her new surroundings.

He hadn’t meant the ritual to last this long; he had his duties to the Prince and the Princess, after all. He had only meant it to last a week or two at the very most, just enough to settle her in after the loss of both her parents. But according to her nurse and the housekeeper, Bessie needed the daily visits from her young, gallant uncle to keep her contented. Without them, she apparently became so fractious as to be almost unmanageable. Or so Mrs Vaughan, the housekeeper said. Henry wasn’t always sure he believed her. Bessie always seemed charming enough with him. She was chirpy and inquisitive, always giggling and urging him to play with her. Perhaps she was a little demanding, but then what Plantagenet girl wasn’t? His sister Mary had certainly been that at her age. And, in many ways, it was nice to know that Bessie bore the traits of the Plantagenets, even if she carried the Sinclair surname. Anyway, shouldn’t the servants be able to control her, if she did try to be difficult around them? Weren’t children their domain?

“Can we see the horses, Uncle Henry?” Bessie begged, breaking him out of his reverie, “I like horses!”

Henry considered for a moment. In the past few weeks, he’d shown Bessie around the village and its market, the church and countless streams and fields. The castle seemed the next logical destination, given he worked in the Prince’s household and the stables seemed as good a place to start as any.

“The royal stables it shall be!” he announced grandly, sweeping her a flamboyant bow with his free arm. Bessie giggled, snaking her plump arms around his neck as he exited the nursery and their sturdy townhouse, setting off for the castle at a brisk, loping walk.

She was lively that day, wriggling gleefully in his arms as the guards on the drawbridge saluted them, calling out, “Good afternoon, Sir Henry. Are we right in assuming this is the bonny Mistress Elizabeth who’s become the talk of the town?”

“You are! I am!”

The men shared an indulgent smile over her head at her vanity and then Henry was past them, marching exaggeratedly past them on the hollow drawbridge to make his little niece laugh.

She clapped and cooed over the horse in their stalls, except for a slender bay palfrey with a white star snoozing in the corner of his. Henry had her by the hand by this point, and she tugged her hand out of his at the sight of the pony. Crossing the stables to his stall, she stood in front of it for a very long time, tiny hands clutching one another so tensely that Henry began to worry.

“Are you all right, Bessie, _cariad_?” he murmured, kneeling down beside her. She turned to him, big blue eyes swimming with tears.

 _“mamaidh_ had a horse like that.”

Her voice was little more than a whisper.

Unaccustomed to having to comfort anyone, least of all girls barely out of infancy, all Henry could think to do was to pull Bessie into his arms from behind. He held her tightly for several long seconds, until her shoulders had stopped quivering and she had ceased to burrow into him as though she wanted nothing more than for the rest of the world to go away. Then he swept her up, nestling her on his hip again.

“Shall we go and see whether anyone’s exercising their horses in the big yard? It’s far too nice a day to stay cooped up inside, don’t you think?”

He injected an extra note of gaiety into his voice for Bessie’s sake, and was relieved to see her give him a watery smile and nod in response.

The two of them exited the stables in the direction of the covered yard, where, with a jolt, Henry saw a dark-haired rider driving a roan hunter through its paces with barely concealed tension.

“Look, Bessie, it’s the Princess!” he gestured, drawing his little niece’s eyes towards the young woman, before, almost unable to help himself, drifting closer to the fence behind which Anne was exercising her mount.

Anne glanced up at Henry’s footfall and felt a rush of inexplicable but irrepressible pleasure at the sight of him. Her hands loosened on the reins and she allowed her horse to slacken its pace so that, by the time Henry and Bessie were leaning against a nearby fence post, it seemed natural for her to rein back in front of them.

“Good afternoon, Sir Henry,” she smiled.

“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” Henry replied, bowing his head courteously, “I trust Your Grace is well?”

“Well enough, thank you. Mercury gave me a good ride these past two hours, did you not, old friend?”

Anne directed this last at the horse, patting his neck. He really had, she reflected ruefully. It wasn’t his fault she’d been too wound up to enjoy it properly.

“No doubt he was overjoyed to have such a Diana as yourself on his back, My Lady.”

The phrase slipped off Henry’s tongue as though it was the most natural thing in the world. His eyes, as he looked up, met Anne’s for an instant, and Anne, who had had poise bred into her and had been plied with flattery almost every instant since babyhood, suddenly found herself flushing and chuckling, even going so far as to avert her eyes.

“Your words are bold but kind, Sir Henry.”

In an effort to control herself, for she felt the conversation teetering on the brink of far deeper waters, she shook her head slightly and smiled down at the child he held.

“This must be little Elizabeth.”

“Yes, Your Grace. This is my niece, Mistress Elizabeth Sinclair. Though she’s more a Plantagenet by nature.”

“I should certainly hope so. She’s at Ludlow now. She’ll have to be more an English girl than a Scottish one.”

“You’ve got a pretty horse. Can I pat him? Please?”

Bessie, aware her uncle and the pretty lady were talking about her, but not sure what their words meant, had grown bored with not holding her uncle’s attention. She squirmed eagerly in Henry’s arms, itching to reach out and stroke the horse’s velvety muzzle.

“Bessie!” Henry chided, but Anne was already laughing, heart strangely warmed by the little girl’s sudden outburst.

“Of course you can, Elizabeth. In fact, how would you like to ride up here with me? Mercury won’t hurt you.”

Anne didn’t know what had prompted the offer. God knew she was still struggling to feel the tenderness that everyone said she ought to feel for her son. She no longer thought he was made of glass, but he still felt like a cannon liable to explode every time she touched him. More often than not, he did, wailing furiously without any apparent reason until his nurse took pity on them both and took him from her. If Mistress Bowen didn’t rescue him in time, he screwed up his little face and was sick, miserably sick. On one memorable occasion, when Anne had determined she would soothe him herself if it killed her, he had voiced such displeasure that her ears had rung for hours afterwards. Then he had voided both ends over himself with such ferocity that Anne had had no choice but to hand him over again.  She had wept in Meg’s arms after that fiasco. Since then, she had often chosen to sneak in to visit him while he was napping, scarcely daring to breathe near him for fear of waking him and provoking an outburst.

Yet this little girl sparked something more in her than Richard had ever done. And the way Bessie’s eyes lit up told her she’d made the right decision.

“Lift Mistress Elizabeth up in front of me,” she ordered, “I’ll not let any harm come to her, you have my word.”

“And a Howard’s word is worth England,” Henry murmured, helping Bessie settle into the saddle, “Sit up, _cariad_ ,” he whispered, smiling to himself as the little girl’s back instantly went ramrod straight.

Anne tentatively curved her arms around the little girl’s waist, chuckling as Elizabeth automatically made a grab for the reins.

“Let me do that, Elizabeth. You tell Mercury to walk on, go on.”

“Bessie,” the child corrected, as she did as she was told, “Uncle Henry calls me Bessie.”

“Does he indeed?” Anne murmured, flashing a look across at Henry as she nudged Mercury with her heels in response to the little girl’s command. He was leaning against the fence, trying desperately to look as though watching the Princess of Wales entertain his little niece was something he did every day. Anne couldn’t help the half-stifled laugh that escaped her lips at the sight, though she quickly restrained it in favour of saying, “I can see why. Bessie suits you. And it means you won’t be mixed up with your grandmother. She’s called Elizabeth too, isn’t she?”

Bessie screwed up her nose in concentration and then nodded slowly, “Yes. But I don’t live with her. I live with Uncle Henry.”

“You do. And do you like that?”

Again, Bessie bobbed her head, more eagerly this time. She tugged on Anne’s sleeve so that she would lean down to put their heads closer together.

“My Uncle’s a Knight. Like the ones in the stories Ruthie tells me.”

“Is he now?”

This time, Bessie’s nod was solemn, “Ruthie says he looks like Lan’lot.”

She stumbled over the unfamiliar name and Anne puzzled over it for a few moments. What could she mean? Then comprehension dawned.

“You mean Lancelot, don’t you?”

“Yes, Lan’lot.”

“I think he looks like Lancelot too,” Anne confided, moved to candour by this charming little girl, “Shall we tell him?”

Bessie didn’t respond, but she giggled. Thus emboldened, Anne drew Mercury to a halt and called over to Henry.

“Mistress Elizabeth and I say you look like Lancelot from Mallory’s Morte de Arthur, Sir Henry. What do you say to that?”

“You flatter me, Your Highness. I should be honoured to serve you as Lancelot served Guinevere.”

“I haven’t been told I’m Guinevere yet,” Anne arched an eyebrow and Henry looked back at Bessie.

“What do you think, _cariad?_ Is Her Highness pretty and sweet enough to play the role of Queen Guinevere?”

“Yes! You’re Queen Gwinie’e!” Bessie clapped, twisting in her seat to beam up at Anne.

“Don’t let my mother hear you say that,” she cautioned, handing Bessie back down to Henry as he clambered the fence to cross the yard towards them, “I’m not a Queen yet.”

“No, but you are _spes matria_ ,” Henry murmured before he could stop himself. Anne’s eyebrows went up.

“Is that treason I hear you speak, Sir Henry?” she warned lightly, extending her hand for him to help her from the saddle as he set Bessie back on her feet.

“Of course not, Your Grace,” he assured her, arms encircling her waist, “I could never utter a word that would be in any way to your detriment.”

“I’m quite sure you could not,” Anne laid a hand on his shoulder to steady herself as she came down.

Quite unconsciously, they held that pose for several seconds longer than necessity, or indeed, propriety demanded.

“Kiss!”

Bessie’s chirp caused them to spring apart as though they’d been doused with scalding water.

“I beg your pardon?” Anne choked out. Bessie looked up at her, blue eyes wide.

“Uncle Henry Lan’lot, you Queen Gwinie’e. They kiss in story, so you kiss.” To her mind, it was the simplest thing in the world.

Anne and Henry looked at each other, hearts pounding. They couldn’t…could they?

 _“It’s just a game to appease a child,”_ Anne rationalised to herself.

Seeing Henry frozen with indecision, she waved a seemingly airy hand.

“Come, Sir Henry. You heard Mistress Elizabeth. The story demands that we kiss, so kiss me. We’re both well aware it will mean nothing. Kiss me as Lancelot would kiss Queen Guinevere.”

“As Lancelot would kiss Guinevere, then,” Henry finally choked out breathlessly. Leaning forward, he placed a hand on her cheek and the lightest of daring kisses on her lips.

It was as though the rest of the world had melted away. Nothing existed outside of his lips on hers and their hungry exploration of one another. Almost unthinkingly, he deepened the kiss, asking for entrance to her mouth with his tongue. Anne might have granted it, had Bessie’s applause not brought them back to their surroundings.

They sprang apart, both blushing furiously.

“Your Grace – I – I forgot – Forgive me, I beg you!”

“There is nothing to forgive, Sir Henry,” Anne breathed, “You merely did as I commanded you, as any loyal subject must.”

Their eyes met. Onyx stared into sapphire.

No further words passed between them, but somehow they both understood what the other was thinking.

This changed everything.

 


	13. XIII: Black Bulls XII

**Chapter XII**

The feeble August breeze barely stirred the air and Elizabeth had to discreetly mop at her brow as she stood on the docks at Bristol.

She bitterly regretted her decision to come and greet this particular ship herself and, had it been carrying any other visitor, she might have given up her dockside vigil, retreated inside to the cool of Bristol Castle and left her noblewomen to greet its passengers, but this was no ordinary ship. It carried in its cabins the Magdalene Lucretia Orsini, sent all the way from Rome to try the Princess of Wales' marriage. It was only fitting that such an eminent visitor be greeted with all honour. And besides, Elizabeth was eager to meet Her Eminence away from the pressures of the ecclesiastical court at Ludlow. She wanted to gauge the other woman's personal reaction to Anne's petition before she reached Anne's sphere of influence at Ludlow and the trial began in earnest.

At last the ship she had been watching sail in to the harbour ground, almost imperceptibly, to a halt and its moorings secured. The gangplank was lowered with an echoing clunk. Almost at once, a curvaceous woman with dark, tawny hair who stood swathed in the violet robes of a Magdalene of Rome exited her cabin on the upper deck and swept down towards the shore, halting beside Elizabeth to acknowledge her reverent half-curtsy.

"Your Eminence," Elizabeth breathed, feeling unusually insignificant in the face of the magnetic presence of this continental beauty, who was of such importance.

"Madam," Lucretia extended her hand for Elizabeth to kiss her silver magdalenal ring. Elizabeth obediently did so, continuing her address as she straightened, "Welcome to England. We are honoured that such a mighty lady as yourself has deigned to come and pass judgement upon the suit proffered by my daughter the Princess."

Elizabeth's voice was calm, but Lucretia, accustomed to reading every nuance of human behaviour, sensed the reluctance with which the Queen uttered the courteous pronouncement and the slight recoil that she could not hide as she spoke of the matter that had brought Lucretia to England.

_"Aha! So the rumours are true. Queen Elizabeth truly does think the Princess has pushed this matter too far; that she should be the obedient daughter rather than the young heiress trying to secure her future."_

That thought in mind, Lucretia kept her face carefully blank and her tone measured as she responded, "I thank you, Your Majesty. It is a pleasure to be in England and to be able to lend my expertise where it is sought."

"We in England are equally grateful for it. It will be a great relief to us all to have the – terrible strain of this – great matter lifted from our shoulders once and for all, Madame Orsini."

The Queen was clearly trying to keep her emotions from showing, but Lucretia could read her as easily as an open sheaf of parchment. Coolly, she shut down any further discussion of the matter.

"Again, I am honoured to be held in such high regard, My Lady. However, I feel it would be remiss of me to speak of the Princess's suit so publicly, especially before I have spoken to those it most concerns and heard the evidence of either side. Do you not agree, Your Grace?"

Disappointed at the obviously impartial stance the Magdalene was taking – she had hoped that a woman of the Church would know what duty meant better than a headstrong sixteen-year-old – but unable to remonstrate, Elizabeth nodded and subsided, "Quite."

Gesturing expansively ahead of her, she allowed Madame Orsini to precede her to the sumptuous cushioned litters waiting for them, saw her settled in hers and then allowed the Mayor of Bristol to help her into her own as they swayed back to Bristol Castle where they would dine and rest for a night or two before they continued their respective journeys – Elizabeth north along the coast as part of her summer progress and Lucretia in the company of the Countesses of Oxford and Arundel westwards to Shrewsbury, the Severn Bridge, the Marches and Ludlow.

* * *

"Dress me sombrely today," Anne instructed, as she broke her fast on oatcakes and early blackberries swimming in cream, "I'll be meeting Her Eminence and I don't want to give the wrong impression."

"Of course," Eliza soothed, noting from the way the younger woman was playing with her fingers, twisting them in and out of one another, that she was riddled with nerves, "We wouldn't dream of doing anything less. Perhaps the dove-grey damask with the royal blue underskirts?"

A nod and the pushing away of her half-empty bowl was all the answer Anne granted her old friend. She was about to walk away to her morning prayers when Eliza stopped her with a few whispered words.

"I'd visit Prince Richard this morning, Your Grace. It can only be to your advantage to have Madame Orsini think of you as an affectionate mother."

For a fraction of an instant, Anne stiffened. Her face, though it was turned away from Eliza so she couldn't see, drained of all colour. Then she had herself in hand again and was responding calmly, "As you say."

She went from the room, hoping against hope Eliza would have the tact to put the unmistakeable hollowness in her voice down to nerves over meeting the Magdalene and not fear of her infant son.

 _"When I'm free of John, I'll be able to bond with Richard properly_ ," she told herself silently, _"When I'm free of John."_

* * *

It took a little engineering on the parts of the four Graces, but in the end, Anne's first meeting with Madame Orsini took place in her son's nursery.

"Your Highness?"

Anne turned from where she was watching Richard sleep and trying to force herself to relax as she leaned against his cradle. When she saw who was at the door, she dropped like a stone into a curtsy, "Your Eminence."

The older woman waved away the deference and crossed the room to stand beside her, peering down at the sleeping Richard.

"A beautiful boy, Principessa," she murmured after a few moments.

"Thank you, Your Eminence."

"A pity you don't see eye to eye with his father, hmm?"

Anne's jaw set as she fought to keep her voice cool, "Yes," she said at last, "A great pity. It pains me that things could not be different; that we should have been driven to this. But at least, whatever Your Eminence's ruling, it won't affect Richard. He's too young to ever remember things being any different."

"Indeed, Your Highness. Let us praise the Lord for that mercy, hmm?"

Nodding, Anne leaned down to brush a fingertip along her son's cheek, biting the inside of her cheek as she struggled to work out how to phrase the next question, "My mother welcomed you to Bristol, did she not?"

"She did. We had a pleasant two days in each other's company before we parted ways."

"I'm glad to hear that."

There was an awkward pause. Lucretia glanced over at the younger woman, sensing what she did not say with a skill born of years of practice.

"I spent two days with Her Majesty at Bristol Castle, it is true. But we did not discuss the case. I forbade any discussion of it, for I did not think it fair to give any indication of how I might proceed when I do not yet know myself. Have no fear, I will hear the arguments put to me by both Your Grace's counsel and that of the Lord Wales before I decide upon this most weighty matter. I give you my solemn word on that, My Lady Princess."

"Thank you, Your Eminence."

The fervency of Anne's whispered response belied how relieved she was. Lucretia couldn't help but reach for her hand, "Do not fear the Church, child. Trust it. The Holy Mother has heard your plea and sent me here to ensure justice is done. We will not wilfully hurt you or slander you. I swear it."

Flushing as Lucretia read her so easily, Anne slid to her knees beside her son's cradle and bowed her head, "I ask Your Eminence's blessing."

"And I grant it gladly, my daughter," Lucretia placed a hand on Anne's dark tresses where they peeped out from under her French-style hood, "God and the Virgin's peace be with you, Principessa."

Anne rose to a curtsy, a weight off her shoulders. Somewhere deep inside, she had feared that, despite everything, her case would be dismissed as the rantings of an aggrieved spoilt child and Madame Orsini would merely humour her with a show trial before ordering her back to the horrors of John's bed. Having now spoken to the Magdalene, she was much more confident that her cause would be treated fairly despite the resistance of both her mother and the Queen of Spain.

She smiled winningly up at Madame Orsini as the older woman helped her to her feet, resolving to truly act every inch the Princess for as long as the other woman stayed in England. She wanted to prove she was the woman the Magdalene was treating her as.

Despite herself, however, she knew that the sight of her sharing a sort of camaraderie with Her Eminence would discomfort John. It might even jolt him out of that blasted superiority of his. As such, the demure pace she set by ambling out of Richard's nursery at Madame Orsini's side, exchanging desultory remarks about their favourite pastimes and the weather, disguised a childish leap of glee.

* * *

Meanwhile, Lady Parr had been summoned north to the Queen's court where it rested at Tewkesbury Abbey. Slightly puzzled, she had ridden out of Ludlow a day or two before the Magdalene's arrival and was soon ensconced and treated with marked favour. Indeed, when she was taken to see the Queen, she was let, not into the Audience Chamber or the Privy Chamber, but into Elizabeth's own bedchamber.

"You wanted to see me, Madam?" Sweeping a deep curtsy, Lady Parr held it until Elizabeth turned to her and gestured for her to rise, nodding.

"Ah, Maud. Yes, thank you for coming so promptly," Her Majesty paused, then exhaled, "Well, I suppose there's no point beating about the bush. I asked you to come to Tewkesbury because I need you to do something for me."

"Your Majesty knows I am your most humble servant. If it is within my power, you shall see it done."

"I need you to speak for me at the trial of my daughter's marriage. Madame Orsini cannot be allowed to annul the match with Spain. The foreign standing of both countries depends upon it. Yet I cannot be seen to resist the workings of the Church openly. Thus, you must do it for me."

Lady Parr hesitated. The Lord knew that she was loyal to Elizabeth and would be until her death, but to resist the machinations of the Holy Mother Church…this could be a dangerous game to play.

"I would gladly do so, Madam. But I have not yet been told I will be summoned to give evidence," she hedged at last, torn between her loyalty to her Queen and her knowledge that, whether they liked it or not, the Princess's case was actually quite a strong one.

Elizabeth waved away her concerns, "Nonsense. Of course you'll be asked to testify. Who else from Anne's household would they ask? Lady Susanna? Lady Sybil? They'd back Anne up even if she was walking into the jaws of Hell and Madame Orsini would expect nothing less. You mark my words, Maud, the court will want a more balanced view of the situation and they'll look to you to provide one. You must make Her Eminence see that the Spanish match was the only choice I could have made for Anne. You must."

Elizabeth's voice was laboured, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her agitation forced her to struggle to her feet, which only worsened the situation. Unable to hide her pain, her hand went to her breast. She coughed hoarsely. Alarmed, Lady Parr rushed forward.

"Madam! You mustn't exert yourself. Progress is always tiring. Your Grace must take more care!"

"The word must ought not to be used to Princesses, Maud," Elizabeth rejoined, but her eyes softened at the sight of her old friend's concern and she allowed herself to be settled into a chair, "Thank you. But if you really want to help, give me your word that you will testify. That you will make Madame Orsini see that I did what was best for England and what I thought was best for Anne, either in the past, now, or in the future."

"You may rely on me, Your Majesty," Lady Parr promised, moved despite herself at the strength of will in the Queen's voice, "I'll not let Her Eminence annul the match without showing her the strongest reasons why she shouldn't."

"I know. You've always had my interests at heart, Maud, always striven to teach Anne her duty to England and to me. It's not your fault she's so wilful, so determined to drag my name through the mud. There's no one I'd rather trust to save me from condemnation than you."

Elizabeth turned her head away and allowed her iron posture to melt a fraction. In that moment, with the flickering shadows from the firelight playing over her face, she looked far older than her years.

"I wish it didn't have to be this way," she whispered hoarsely, "I wish to God Anne and I could see eye to eye on this matter. But if we cannot, then by God, I'll fight her until she sees sense. She's only sixteen, how can she understand what she truly wants? How can she really know what it means to defend your country's reputation on an international stage?"

Lady Parr opened her mouth, but Elizabeth ploughed on before the other woman could utter a word, "I'd hoped Her Holiness would ignore Anne's plea, but if she's taken steps to prevent another child being born of this match, then that is not the case. I fear this might be more than the show trial I assumed it would be. I fear the outcome, Maud, I really do."

"Your Grace has no need to fear. Justice will prevail, I am sure of it."

"Aye, perhaps. But what if justice is not on our side?"

Lady Parr had no answer to that. All she could do was kneel at her old friend's side, breaking protocol as she took her hand in comfort. And, knowing how much her old friend hated to show any sign of weakness, when Elizabeth pressed her hand to her chest again and her breath grew more ragged, she tactfully pretended she did not notice.

* * *

The day had come. Anne, resplendent in a gown of cloth of silver woven with the crimson dragons of Wales, was pacing an antechamber, unable to keep still.

"What if it all goes wrong? What if Her Eminence orders me back to John's bed? I'd rather die than have to bear any more of his children. Richard barely tolerates my presence as it is. I couldn't bear…"

"Hush!" Sybil was at her side immediately after her outburst, taking her hands and calming her down in the way only she and Eliza could. "It won't go wrong. Trust in yourself, in Master Wykes and it won't go wrong. Keep your head and there's no way you can lose, Your Highness. I promise."

"Really?" Anne looked uncharacteristically insecure. Sybil nodded, tightening her hands around her younger friend's. She was about to say more, but at that moment, a blast of halboys interrupted her.

"Anne, Princess of Wales, come into court!"

The change in Anne was instantaneous. Her head went up and her eyes hardened. Every inch of her screaming determination, she swept into the courtroom as though she owned the whole of Christendom, never mind stood in line to inherit England and Ireland.

The fight to end her marriage had begun.


	14. XIV: Black Bulls XIII

**Chapter XIII**

The hall at Ludlow was packed. The judges, the counsel, those preparing to testify and hundreds of spectators, all agog with excitement and speculation, waited with bated breath to see how this unprecedented event was going to play out.

The moment Lucretia Orsini rose to her feet, however, a hush so deathly thick one could have cut it with a scythe fell over the room. She, for her part, crossed herself and looked to the heavens for a moment, before taking in the packed surroundings with a brisk, sweeping glance.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are gathered here today to begin investigating the validity of the union between Her Highness the Princess of Wales and her Consort, His Highness the Prince John of Castile. Her Highness contends that, as she was three years below the legal age for marriage when she took her vows and His Highness has proved an unsuitable consort these six years past, her marriage should firstly never have taken place and secondly should henceforth be considered null and void.”

There was a rustle of papers and a slight cough to her left. Lucretia raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“You have something to say, Master Wykes?”

“With all due respect, Your Eminence, the Princess Anne was in fact five years below the age for marriage, not three. While Roman law decrees twelve to be the minimum age for marriage, English law states that young ladies in the senior line of succession, such as the Princess of Wales, must be at least fourteen when they wed. This is thought to protect their health and increase the chances that they will have a successful childbed within a short time of their marriage.”

Lucretia considered for a moment, then nodded.

“I apologise. It was remiss of me not to have remembered that fact. Thank you for reminding me of it, Master Wykes. Now, I would like to call the Princess herself to the stand, so that she may testify to the state of the relations between herself and the Consort,” Lucretia glanced towards the corner of the hall, noting with approval that her petitioner, having made the dramatic entrance she desired, now sat demurely, patiently waiting her turn. At the summons, she rose, exchanged a glance with her loyal companions who were ranged behind her and came forward, curtsying to Lucretia reverently.

“Your Highness, do you swear to tell this court the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“By God and the Virgin, I do so solemnly swear. May they strike me down if I do not,” Anne’s voice rang with sincerity and determination as she spoke her oath.

“Thank you, Your Highness. Now, in your own words, please explain to this court why you feel that your marriage to Prince John ought to be considered invalid.”

“As Your Eminence knows, I was but nine when I was married to Prince John. I freely admit that I was unhappy with the match from the start, but had circumstances been different, I am sure I would have learnt to reconcile myself to my mother’s choice of spouse for me, as any obedient daughter ought to do.”

“You were unhappy with the match from the start, you say? And why, pray, was that?”

“I had been betrothed to James of Scotland since infancy, Madame, and as any true English Princess must, I had harboured dreams of uniting England and Scotland under one flag as a united Albion. To have my betrothal to King James broken and thus those dreams crushed was a bitter blow. To have to then so quickly accept Prince John as my husband in His Grace of Scotland’s stead simply rubbed salt into the wound. Your Eminence must understand that.”

“Perhaps, but disappointment is no real reason to petition for an annulment, is it, Your Highness? After all, it is not as though you can marry His Grace of Scotland now.” Lucretia steepled her fingers and peered at Anne searchingly.

To her credit, Anne kept her head and did not react other than to bow her head briefly in acknowledgment of the point.

“No, Madam. And as I say, had circumstances been different, no doubt I would have learnt to accept my mother’s choice of husband for me. But Prince John has proven time and time again that he is unfit to be my Consort.”

“Indeed? And just how has His Highness done that?”

“The examples are legion, Your Eminence. If I were to list them all, we should never end this trial, so I shall not. But three in particular remain in my mind with clarity. I offer them now as evidence for my claim. First, when we first came to Ludlow together seven years ago, Prince John assumed that, as my Consort, he would be named Head of the Welsh Council. When I, acting on the advice of the esteemed Ladies of the Council, decided that it would be unseemly to allow him to assume the reins of power before I was of age to do so alongside him, especially since neither his English nor his Welsh was fluent enough to allow him to follow Council business easily, His Highness was furious. He burst into my schoolroom and not only denigrated both myself and my Lady Mother the Queen, but also physically shook me in an attempt to make me accede to his wishes. My governess, Lady Parr can testify to this, can you not?”

She suddenly swung round to her old governess, catching her in a fierce glare. Taken aback, Lady Parr nodded automatically.

There were angry mutterings as the spectators were reminded of how badly the Princess’s marriage had begun. However, Anne spoke over them, once more impassive and utterly focused on the Magdalene in front of her, “Nor was that the only time my husband showed me such blatant disrespect. When my brother and the Infanta Juana visited us here in Ludlow a few months ago, Prince John blatantly flouted protocol by escorting his sister from the courtyard before I had left it, even though as his wife, the Princess of Wales and the chatelaine of Ludlow Castle, I ought to have preceded him from it. Finally, the night my mother ordered us to consummate our marriage, he manhandled me so roughly that I bore the bruises for days.”

Despite herself, Lucretia sucked in her breath. This was a bold claim indeed. “Are you prepared to say that others can testify to this too, Princess?”

Anne lifted her chin fractionally, “I am. My companions helped me dress the morning after my wedding night and they can all testify to the fact that I was visibly distressed when they entered His Highness’s rooms to attend me. Ask any one of them and they will corroborate the truth of my claims.”

“Did Your Grace not try to tell your mother how uncomfortable bedding the Prince had been for you? You say Her Majesty ordered the consummation of your marriage. Would Her Grace not have granted you at least a respite, if you had told her how harshly His Highness had treated you?”

Anne hesitated. When she looked up at Lucretia again, it was with tears swimming in her onyx eyes.

“I dared not speak out, Your Eminence,” she whispered, “My Lady Mother had made it perfectly clear that she considered the securing of the succession to be among my primary duties once I had turned fourteen. I feared that if I showed myself reluctant to share my husband’s bed, even if I shared the reasons why, Her Grace would take my words as falsehoods and brand me disobedient, when in fact I have always striven to be Her Majesty’s most loyal servant.”

“Are you telling me, Princess, that you would willingly risk your own health in order to obey your mother’s wishes?”

“I am, My Lady. I only wish things had had a happier ending. It pains me greatly to have had to take the step of petitioning the Holy Mother for an annulment. I beg Your Eminence to believe me; to believe that I truly felt I had no other choice.”

Anne’s voice cracked, and though Lucretia was almost sure it was largely theatrical, she made her voice soothing, in order to bolster the image of the Church as protective.

“I do, my child. But I must ask – forgive me, for I know there can be no easy answer to this – are you saying, Your Highness, that your mother erred so grievously in her choice of spouse for you that there is no chance of the two of you ever managing to reconcile? That she did not have your best interests at heart when she brokered you a match with Prince John of Castile?”

Before she answered, Anne glanced behind her again. Her eyes, roaming the courtroom, caught Lady Parr’s for an instant. When she spoke, the tears had vanished from her voice. Her tone was as hard and cold as marble.

“I am, My Lady. Queen Elizabeth may have had England’s interests at heart when she brokered my marriage, but she did not have mine.”

* * *

“Now, Lady Parr, you have heard the Princess’s accusation that her mother Queen Elizabeth did not have her best interests at heart when she contracted a union for her with Prince John of Castile. As her former Lady Governess and a long-time servant of the English Crown, do you agree?”

Lady Parr hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek. She had promised Her Majesty that she’d make the case for Anne’s marriage; that she’d explain that her mistress had had no choice but to go for the Spanish match for the sake of England’s wider foreign affairs. She had agreed to twist the truth, if necessary; to do all it was within her power to do to make Her Eminence believe that the Queen had had no choice but to go with the Spanish match for her elder daughter, because strengthening an alliance with the newest of the European powers had been in Anne’s best interests. Yet, under the scrutiny of Madame Orsini’s clear, searching gaze, her resolve deserted her.

“I make no answer to Her Highness’s claim, Your Eminence,” she said slowly, “However, I believe that, as a mother, Her Majesty had no choice but to select Prince John as the Princess of Wales’s husband and Consort.”

“And why is that, may I ask?”                                                                                                                                                    

“Her Grace was thinking of the future and her daughter’s standing in the eyes of foreign nations when she signed the treaties surrounding her children’s unions. Her Grace of Spain had intimated that, were the alliance between our countries not sealed by a double union, we might not have an alliance at all.  Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth feared to lose an agreement that would secure England’s position on the international stage, a position the Princess one day stands to inherit. Moreover, by wedding the Duchess of Gloucester to the King of Scots, Her Majesty was able to secure Her Grace a crown of her own, thus enabling the widening of England’s diplomatic networks and also preventing the Duchess from being a drain on her older sister’s resources as she grew older, as Duchesses have so often been in the past. Besides, My Lady, as our Lord once said, which of us, if our children ask for bread, will give them stones? By the same token, how could any mother, if given the chance, refuse to make their children the best possible matches?”

“No, indeed,” Lucretia murmured, hard-pressed to keep her lips from twitching at the other woman’s obvious relief as she agreed with her. Lady Parr might consider herself good at keeping her emotions in check, but for a woman as skilled at reading adversaries as Lucretia, she was an open book.

Steepling her fingers, Lucretia searched Lady Parr’s earnest gaze with her own as she continued, “But is it not also true that Princess Mary is known in Scotland as the Duchess of Orkney, even though the consort of a reigning King is traditionally titled Queen or Princess Consort? That does not suggest the most harmonious of marriages to me."

Lady Parr shifted uncomfortably. “It is not for me to presume inside knowledge of the Scottish Court, My Lady, not even where their relations entangle with our own. But I am aware that Her Highness of Wales and the King of Scotland were fond of one another as children and dreamed of ruling a united Albion together. The breaking of their betrothal was thus a bitter disappointment to the Princess and, I may venture to hope, to His Grace of Scotland as well.”

“So having to accept a Spanish husband in the place of her Scottish one, with very little warning, would not have left the Princess in the best of humours?”

“One could say that, Your Eminence,” Lady Parr answered, suddenly wary of where this line of questioning was going.

“Yet she married the Prince of Castile, as Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth bade, without protest?”

Lady Parr’s face closed. She would not and could not lie to the Magdalene, but even memories of Anne’s conduct reflected upon her and how she had fared in the performance of her duties as the Princess’s Lady Governess. At last, she muttered a carefully chosen answer, “Her Highness did her duty to her mother, Madam, as any daughter must.”

“Yes. Of course she would. But forgive me, Lady Parr. You seem to be suggesting that the King of Scots was the only possible match for the Duchess of Gloucester? The only country that offered for her? I find that hard to believe.”

“Well …no, he wasn’t. Milan offered their heir Maximillian for her and France offered the Duchess of Auvergne and Bourbon’s brother Francis.”

“And Prince George, what of him? Was he not suggested as a consort for any other ladies besides the Princess Juana?”

“None so high-ranking. There was talk of marrying him to a Princess of Navarre or the Duchess of Braganza…”

“So England could have, given time, possibly built up a diplomatic network that would have been as useful to them as their double connection with Spain, could they not?  In particular, had the Princess of Wales married into Scotland, the Duchess of Gloucester into France and Prince George cemented ties with Navarre, the web of alliances with England at their centre would have stretched from the Highlands to the Pyrenees. Is that not true?”

“Well, when Your Eminence puts it like that, yes,” Lady Parr shifted uncomfortably, reluctant to admit that her old friend and mistress had made a mistake, “But Madam, how could the Queen accept any of those offers, which would have reduced Princess Mary to, at best a ruling Duchess, when she had the option of making her a Queen? And the same goes for His Highness Prince George. He is now the husband of the future Queen of Spain. No other match under consideration for him would have been as exalted, even if he had married the heiress to Navarre, which was by no means certain. Agreeing to the double match with Spain and sending Princess Mary north to Edinburgh was the only way Her Grace could be certain of making all three of her children sovereigns of powerful countries.”

“But Her Majesty failed to make all three of her children monarchs,” Lucretia pointed out, “The Duchess of Gloucester became no more than the Duchess of Orkney, for all she is King James’s wife.”

“Her Majesty could not have known that then,” Lady Parr retorted, “She did what she thought was best.”

“I see. Thank you, Lady Parr. Let us leave the matter of what could have been and turn to what actually happened. What of the incidents the Princess has alluded to in her testimony? Is it true Prince John attacked Her Highness when she followed the Welsh Council’s advice and stopped him taking a seat upon it before she was of an age to do so herself?”

“The rumours of the altercation have been grossly exaggerated,” Lady Parr said quickly. Too quickly for Lucretia’s liking.

“But there was an altercation?” she pressed.

“It is true Prince John interrupted Her Highness’s lessons and lost his temper with her, blaming her for the humiliation he had suffered, because she unfortunately forgot to tell him that he wouldn’t be hearing the Council’s oaths of allegiance with her. I blame myself that omission, because I knew Her Highness had lots on her mind at that time, what with the recent move, and as her Lady Governess, I ought to have reminded her. But to come to the particulars of the incident: His Highness shouted at the Princess in Spanish, accusing her of lying to the Queen and implying that his mother was the better Queen. What shocked me most, however, was the fact that His Highness shook my mistress when he ran into the room. Surely that is no way for any gentleman, much less a Prince of the Blood, to treat his wife?”

“No. No, Lady Parr, it is not,” Lucretia murmured encouragingly, “I presume you informed Her Majesty of the incident?”

“Her Highness and I both wrote to Westminster.”

“And how did Her Majesty respond? Surely she reprimanded Prince John for his unacceptable behaviour?”

The silence that followed her query told Lucretia all she needed to know. She needed to hear it from Lady Parr’s own lips, however. Therefore, she frowned at the woman stood before her, who was obviously all too reluctant to admit to what she knew.

“I asked you a question, Lady Parr. I expect you to answer it. Do I need to remind you that you stand before this court on oath?”

“No, Madam,” Lady Parr sighed, “The Queen…The Queen was keen to smooth the rift over if she could. She ordered the Princess to give His Highness a gift in an attempt to reconcile them.”

There was a collective intake of breath. A “How could she?” was only too audible from the gallery. Lucretia Orsini made no such outburst, but her lips suddenly formed a line so thin as to be almost invisible. She made a quick gesture to the young secretary at her side, who made a few furious notes. Only when those had been completed did she turn back to Lady Parr and nod.

“Thank you, Lady Parr. Now, to turn to another incident Princess Anne alluded to in her testimony. Her Highness claimed that the consummation of her marriage left a lot to be desired. Have you any thoughts on that, My Lady?”

“I wasn’t present for much of the bedding, Madam. It would have been unseemly,” Lady Parr evaded.

“Of course not,” Lucretia said smoothly, only too aware that she was playing with the other woman like a cat plays with a trapped mouse, “But as Her Highness’s governess, was it not up to you to wake the Princess and the Consort the following morning?”

“Traditionally, yes. But I left the task to the Princess’s companions, if I recall correctly.”

“Oh? And why was that?”

“As she’s grown older, Her Highness has, quite naturally, relied on her companions for support. In many cases, she’s appealed to them for help before she’s come to me. I had an inkling that Her Highness might need a support that I could not provide the morning after her marriage was consummated, so I sent her companions to wake her in my stead.”

“Very well. For the benefit of this court, can you list the women who would have formed part of this party?”

“Certainly. Lady Sybil Brandon, Lady Susanna De La Pole, Lady Elizabeth Stafford and Lady Margaret Percy.”

“And is Her Highness particularly fond of any one of those four, would you say?”

“The Princess is fiercely fond of all of them of course, as is only natural, given that they’ve served her since childhood, but I’d wager to say that, of all of them, it’s Lady Sybil she truly views as a sister. Possibly also Lady Elizabeth.”

Lucretia nodded, “Thank you. Now, just a couple more questions before I release you, Lady Parr. You say you had an inkling that Her Highness might need her friends’ support the morning after her marriage was consummated. Why was that?”

“The loss of one’s maidenhood can be a difficult experience for any girl, Your Eminence, never mind one of Her Grace’s status, who carries the expectations of the future of her dynasty on her shoulders. Furthermore, although I cannot be counted among the Princess’s closest circle now, but I raised her from a baby. I wasn’t unaware that she was more uncomfortable around her husband than most young girls are on their wedding night. Thus, I thought it might only be wise to offer her the possibility of more comfort than I could offer her myself by sending her companions to her that morning.”

“Very well. Now, Lady Parr. How familiar are you with the canon law on marriage? Are you aware that any heiress’s marriage must be contracted with her explicit interests at heart?”

“I had heard that, yes, Your Eminence.”

“In that case, Lady Parr, let me ask you something. You have given an eloquent defence of Queen Elizabeth’s actions back in 1502, both as a Queen and as a mother to all three of her children, particularly her daughters. But can you look me in the eye and swear, hand on heart before God and the Virgin, that the Princess of Wales’s marriage to John of Castile was brokered with solely the best interests of the Princess of Wales at heart?”

Lady Parr’s heart sank. The colour drained from her cheeks and she felt tears prickling behind her eyelids.

 _“Forgive me, Elizabeth! I have failed you!”_ she cried out silently. Then she set her jaw. Come what may, she would not betray her disappointment in public.

To her relief, when she spoke, the wobble in her voice was so slight that no one who didn’t know her well would have recognised its existence.

“No, Your Eminence. I cannot. In all good conscience, I cannot.”

* * *

“Lady Sybil Brandon, come into court!”

Sybil rose at the herald’s summons, schooling her face to remain blankly demure as she crossed the room and made her curtsy to the dais. With her normally unruly dark brown curls braided firmly into a coil beneath her hood of crimson lace and wearing a damask gown that was a reversal of Anne’s in terms of colour, she could have been mistaken for Anne’s older sister.

“Madame Orsini,” she greeted respectfully, as soon as she had taken her oath.

“Lady Sybil,” Lucretia replied, “Lady Parr tells me Her Highness is extremely fond of you. That she thinks of you as a sister.”

Sybil blushed, “I am not entirely sure I would agree with that assessment, My Lady. Nonetheless, I am honoured to be considered so much in the Princess’s confidence.”

“You were in the party that collected Her Highness from the Consort’s rooms the morning after the two of them had consummated their marriage, correct?”

“I don’t know what that bastard did to her, but I hope he rots in Hell for it!”

The colour was high in Sybil’s cheeks and her hands clenched on the Bible she still held. There was a furore of whispering at her outburst.

“Lady Sybil!” Lucretia snapped, shocked at the vehemence of the young woman’s answer and eager to regain the initiative, “You stand before a court of law! Control yourself!”

Duly chastened, Sybil immediately dropped her eyes, bowing her head penitently.

“Forgive me, Your Eminence. I spoke in haste. It is only that I care so much for my mistress that anger on her behalf made me lose sight of what I said.”

“Your loyalty and concern does you credit, Lady Sybil,” Lucretia said gently, calming herself as well, “But rage such as you have just displayed is a cardinal sin. Showing it will not help the Princess achieve her goal. Come, calm yourself and tell me what you remember of that night.”

“I accompanied Her Highness to her husband’s rooms,” Sybil said slowly, still struggling to regain control of her breathing, “I was the only one of her ladies to go other than Lady Parr. Her Grace had asked for me specially. And she was nervous. I remember that. She was white and trembling. Just as Lady Parr and I took her into the Prince’s bedchamber, Her Grace caught at my hand, as she used to when we were children. She wouldn’t let go until I had squeezed her hand in reassurance. I remember that, because Her Highness was usually so poised. It was rare for her to openly seek comfort like that.”

“I see,” Lucretia pursed her lips, “And the following morning?”

“Lady Parr woke me early and told me to wake the others because we were going to fetch Her Highness from the Consort’s apartments. When I asked Her Ladyship why she didn’t want to do it herself, as was her right as the Princess’s Lady Governess, she said, and I quote, “It wouldn’t surprise me if the Princess needed her friends around her this morning.”

“Lady Parr hinted that she knew the consummation of her marriage wouldn’t have been the easiest for your mistress, then?”

“I’d say so, Your Eminence. Though, in all honesty, I doubt whether she expected it to be any rougher on Her Grace than on any other girl.”

“Do you think it was?”

Sybil paused. “I have only my own experience to go by, Madame, but I didn’t come out of my wedding night covered in bruises and looking as though I had seen a ghost.”

“The Princess was bruised?” Lucretia’s overarching tone was bland, but there were definite sharp notes beneath her seemingly impassive exterior. Sybil nodded.

“Her Highness’s wrists were bruised so deeply they were indigo. The pain must have been excruciating. I can only imagine His Highness held her down by the wrists as he entered her.”

“You imagine? Have you not discussed the events of that night with Her Grace, either then or as preparation for this trial?”

“No, I have not,” Sybil’s voice was hard, “The Princess will not talk of it and I do not wish to bring up unpleasant memories.”

“Very well. That is considerate of you, Lady Sybil,” Lucretia praised and Sybil flushed with pleasure, “Then we will rely upon your memories of the event. But remember, no deliberate embroidery in an attempt to sour our minds against the Prince.”

“Of course not, My Lady. I wouldn’t dream of it. Besides, I think the truth is shocking enough. I’ve never seen my mistress look as drawn as she did that morning, except perhaps directly after she had given birth to Prince Richard.”

“And her Highness blamed Prince John for her state?”

“Oh, undoubtedly, Madame.”

“And did none of you urge Her Grace to inform her mother of what had transpired that night?”

“Of course we did!” Sybil exclaimed, scandalised at the insinuation that she and her friends might have been so remiss in their duties, “Lady Susanna and Lady Margaret both pressed Her Highness to do so, but the Princess refused. She fervently believed that her Lady Mother the Queen saw the continuation of the Howard line as Her Highness’s primary duty and would never have thought to interfere in the Consort’s behaviour in the marital bed.”

Sybil’s voice was layered with disgust. Though this time her self-control failed to desert her, no one in the courtroom was left in any doubt of just exactly what she thought of the way the Queen had handled her daughter’s marriage. Lucretia cut in before she could say anything more damning.

“Thank you, Lady Sybil. Have you anything else to say?”

“Only that I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen the Princess of Wales cry. She is not a woman who finds an easy refuge in tears.”

“And why should that be relevant, Lady Sybil?”

“Because the morning after she came out of her husband’s rooms for the first time, My Lady Princess told us all to pray the Consort had fathered a girl on her and then broke down in my arms.”

* * *

If Anne and Sybil had made a show of submitting themselves to the authority of the Magdalene Court, then John, furious at the implication that England could have made diplomatic connections that would have rivalled or even bettered their double alliance with Spain, which had been relayed to him by his household equerries, did no such thing. When his turn to give evidence came, he sought to cow the court into obedience to his will. Preceded into the room by a flourish of horns, he strolled languidly towards the dais, his head held high. His haughty dark look darted everywhere. It came to rest on Madame Orsini. He glared sullenly at her and scarcely waited for her to acknowledge before launching into one of his characteristic tirades.

“I don’t see why we have to go through with this charade. Everyone knows my _darling wife_ is a hysterical child who enjoys nothing more than throwing her weight around. It’s ridiculous, the way everyone is running around to accommodate her. Just order her back into my bed, Your Eminence, and let’s be done with this farce.”

“The only one presuming to give orders to this Court is yourself, Prince John,” Lucretia replied coldly, “You will confine yourself to answering my questions in future, if you please.”

“Well, ask me something then, damn you!” John snarled, already exasperated beyond belief at the proceedings. He couldn’t lose this trial. His counsel had assured him of that. So why on earth were they bothering with it at all?

Refusing to allow John’s arrogance to rattle her, Lucretia gazed steadily at him, remaining determinedly silent until his bluster failed him and he was forced to drop his eyes.

“That’s better. Now. Tell the court how you came to marry the Princess of Wales, My Lord.”

“Queen Elizabeth sent to Spain, seeking my mother’s support on the diplomatic stage. She was a humble petitioner, yet she had the gall to offer her son George’s hand for my sister Juana – to be her Consort. Had I been in my mother’s stead, I would have dismissed the English suit instantly, but my noble Lady Mother, being the merciful and gracious sovereign that she is, yielded to the persuasion of Queen Elizabeth’s ambassadors. And in light of the then recent instability in England that had drained the Crown’s resources, My Lady Mother agreed to accept the Princess of Wales as my bride rather than demand a jointure for her brother.”

“Your Highness therefore brought no marriage portion to England?”

“Of course I did not!” John sneered, “A Prince of Castile and Aragón has no need to buy his acceptance in any other country. I brought the bloodline of Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragón in my veins, a bloodline purer than anything this paltry backwater has to offer. Moreover, I learnt to rule an embattled country at my mother’s knee. Should the Princess ever find herself embroiled in war, I would be better suited to stand at her side and fight with her for our country than any other man in Christendom.”

As he finished, John tilted his chin so that his stony glare met Lucretia’s cool hazel gaze once more. She let him try to stare her down for a few more seconds, then swiftly and deftly changed tack.

“And what of the incidents we have already discussed here? What do you have to say to those, Your Grace?”

“They have been grossly exaggerated. My wife and her companions have never accepted me. Nor have they shown me the respect my rank deserves. All I have ever done when I have interacted with my wife and/or her ladies is claim my traditional rights as the Consort of Wales. Is it my fault that Anne is such a sensitive, domineering child that she considers my very existence a threat to her power?”

Madame Orsini sighed inwardly, breaking in before John could air his grievances any further, “Very well, My Lord. Thank you for your evidence. If you have nothing further, to say, then, as you are the last witness, I shall adjourn the court and retire to review the evidence.”

She swept to her feet before John had a chance to protest. The rest of the room rose with her, Anne sinking into a submissive curtsy as the Magdalene passed her with an encouraging smile.

At the door, Lucretia turned back.

“I shall issue my verdict after High Mass on Sunday,” she announced, fixing the entire room with a steely glint in her eye.

Her words hung in the air for several seconds after the heavy doors of Ludlow’s Great Hall had swung shut behind her.

 

 


	15. XV: Black Bulls XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd left you hanging for long enough ;) This is the last chapter of Part I, so enjoy!

**Chapter XIV**

The tension in Ludlow Chapel was so thick, one would have needed a hatchet to cut it. Anne sat alone in the front pew as the Dean yielded the pulpit to Madame Orsini. John lounged against a nearby pillar, his pose determinedly casual. He would never permit himself to concede how much the older woman’s words this morning would mean to him. Anne, on the other hand, had no such qualms. Her slight shoulders were rigid beneath her ermine pelisse and her eyes, as she fixed them upon the Magdalene, were feverishly bright and pleading by turns.

Madame Orsini mounted the steps of the pulpit and caught Anne’s gaze, but betrayed nothing. Her face was as impassive as only a Magdalene of Rome’s could be.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!”  she began, her voice ringing out over the congregation in a swell guaranteed to catch and hold their attention. In this instance, such a theatrical delivery was scarcely necessary, but she had ever been a skilled orator, some said the most skilful in all of Rome, and old habits die hard, “As you all know, Her Holiness the Flamenica sent me to England six weeks ago to try and rule upon the validity of the union between Her Highness the Princess of Wales and her Consort, His Highness the Prince John of Castile. Having heard evidence from both parties themselves and numerous witnesses, I and the other judges have spent the past four days reviewing the testimonies and praying to God and the Virgin for guidance. We have reached our verdict.  Now, ordinarily, Rome’s belief is that no girl should be married under the age of twelve. However, Her Holiness recognises that, occasionally, royal families will have no choice but to marry their daughters beneath that. Hence, Her Holiness is often reluctant to overturn any marriage, no matter what the age of the bride and groom when it is contracted.”

John clenched his fist in triumph. Of course this was going to go his way. How could it ever have gone any other way? He shot Anne a gloating look under his eyelids. Oh, he was going to make her pay for dragging him through this humiliation.

Lucretia saw his actions and raised her voice a fraction to regain his attention. “However, the Holy Mother also expects any heiress’s marriage to be made in her best interests. If it is not, then Her Holiness recognises that, as the spiritual mother to all her children, it is her own duty to dissolve the union and free the said heiress to make another. Having reviewed the evidence put before us, I and my fellow judges have come to the conclusion that the Princess of Wales’s marriage to Prince John of Castile cannot, in all good conscience, be said to have been made in Her Highness’s best interests. Thus, in the name of the Holy Mother, I now declare that, due to this and further due to the fact that Princess Anne was but nine when she spoke her vows we had no choice but to decide that Their Graces’ union was invalid. Thus, by the power vested in me by Her Holiness, the most excellent and virtuous Beata IX, I rule that the marriage between Anne, Princess of Wales and John, Prince of Castile, is hence forth to be considered null and void.”

Anne closed her eyes as a surge of relief filled her. Colour flooded her cheeks as a weight fell off her chest and shoulders. She barely gave the provisions Master Wykes had persuaded her to agree to allow her mother to bestow upon John to render the settlement at least somewhat respectable, should the annulment go against him, a second thought. Let him have the Lordship of Man. Let him have 600 marks a year from the Irish Earldom of Kilkenny for life. She couldn’t have cared less. She was free. She was free!

She swept down into a reverent, thankful curtsy to the Magdalene, holding it for several seconds. She kept her head down, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw John spin on his heel and shove his way out of the room, his half-hidden triumphant smile gone as though it had been ripped away. He was now sporting a glower blacker than a summer thunderstorm.

There was scandalised muttering at his conduct but Anne let him go. He wasn’t her husband any more. However he behaved, it no longer reflected upon her or on Wales. He was a Spanish Prince, his behaviour reflected upon Spain. Only when the doors had slammed behind her former husband – her _former_ husband! – did she rise and move towards the dais to thank the Magdalene and assembled clerics and ask for their blessings.

Blessings received, she turned and processed and processed out of the chapel far more decorously than John had done. It was only when she reached the relative sanctuary of her son’s nursery that her demure façade dropped.

“I am free! Finally, I am free!”

Her delight rang through the rooms, startling her ten-month old son awake and setting off a chorus of raucous wails. For once, Anne didn’t start and look uncomfortable and the sound of Richard’s cries. Instead, she spun round and round his audience chamber so fast her cloth of silver skirts flew up around her in a full circle, laughing breathlessly.

Sir Henry Plantagenet, Captain of her son’s household guard, who had been standing by the great bay windows, keeping guard over the Prince as he slept, swung around and caught her as she stumbled slightly. Then he dropped to his knees, wishing he could pull her against his heart and tip her face up to his for a kiss.

“I’m so pleased for you, Your Grace,” he said huskily, “So, so pleased. You deserve the freedom. You’ve suffered enough.”

Just then, there was a noise outside the door and, although they were not touching and therefore really had no reason to do so, they flushed. Henry scrambled to his feet and they sprang apart. Anne’s conduct, particularly, would be under such scrutiny right now. They couldn’t afford to fuel rumours.

Fortunately, it was Eliza who looked into the room. She raised an eyebrow and chuckled, but said nothing other than, “I thought Your Grace might like to know that Her Eminence is drafting an official announcement of the decision to send to London and to Rome. She would much appreciate it if Your Highness could compose a letter of your own to send to Westminster along with your mother’s copy.”

“Thank you, Eliza,” Anne nodded, “I shall go and do that now. Will you organise a banquet to thank Madame Orsini for her efforts on my behalf, please?”

“Yes, Madam,” Eliza half-curtsied, only rising when Anne, having placed a gentle hand on Henry’s arm in farewell, had left the room.

“Take care what you do, Sir Henry,” she warned.

“Excuse me, Lady Elizabeth?”

“I’m not blind. I see the way you look at Her Highness. The way she looks at you. Surely you know it can only end badly for the two of you?”

“We’re just friends,” Henry protested, “I’d never presume to assume we could ever be anything more. But My Lady Princess has had such a harsh few years. Even if I wanted more, I’d never dream of rushing her into anything. Not that I could. Her Grace knows her own mind.”

“The Princess is also sixteen and impulsive. You must see, Sir Henry, that even if you do nothing untoward, the amount of favour she shows you and the amount of time you spend together only risks sparking unseemly gossip. If you truly care for Her Highness, you will help me shield her good name.”

“We’ve done nothing wrong,” Henry protested, determinedly pushing away the memory of their kiss in the stable yard and the way Anne’s waist had felt in his hands as she had half-fallen into his arms not five minutes earlier. Eliza held up a hand.

“I’ll not say you have or haven’t, Sir Henry.  But you’d do well to bear in mind that the Princess is first and foremost the Queen’s subject. Her marriage is a matter of state, even if her heart is crying out for it not to be. For Her Grace to marry you would never be permitted.”

“Not as long as she’s heiress to England, no,” Henry agreed, and Eliza flashed him a brilliant smile, “I am glad we understand each other.”

Coming across to him, she also placed a hand on his arm, unconsciously mimicking her mistress.

“Believe me, I am sorry. If it were possible, I’d want nothing more than to see Her Highness wed a man she loved. And I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if that man were you.”

Henry nodded, accepting Eliza’s commiserations in silence, before the two of them went their separate ways.

* * *

“Madam, this packet has just come from Ludlow,” Lady Rutland passed her mistress the folded parchment, alarmed to see her rubbing her left arm as she straightened in her chair. The Queen had been complaining of breathlessness and chest pains in recent weeks, pains the physicians could find no true cause for. Now it appeared the pains had spread.

“Shall I fetch you some milk of the poppy for your arm, My Lady?”

Elizabeth looked up in surprise as she slit the packet open, “No, there’s no need, thank you, Joan. The pain is lessening already. I can manage.”

“Very well, Madam,” Lady Rutland, crossing the room to tidy away some linens so that she could keep an unobtrusive eye on her mistress as she read her letter. The physicians hadn’t been able to find any real cause for the Queen’s ill-health, but they’d been sure to impress upon the whole household that, if Her Majesty was to shake it off, she needed rest and to be kept free of worry. Whatever the news from Ludlow was, Lady Rutland feared it was unlikely to be peaceful. But it had been too important to hide. Her Majesty had known the verdict was due and would have been pressing for news had she not been told outright.

A sudden noise behind her jolted Lady Rutland out of her musings and she spun round, gasping.

The Queen, who had clearly half-risen, had flushed dangerously red and was swaying on her feet.

 Lady Rutland rushed over and caught her by the waist. “Madam!”

“Daughter…Anne…free…” The Queen could barely form words, never mind a complete sentence. She was clearly fighting for every second of consciousness. Moments later, she lost the battle. Her eyes rolled back in her head and the alarming colour drained from her face, leaving her even more fearfully waxen.

Lady Rutland screamed, bringing the guards running.

“Fetch Lady Russell, now!”

One of them fled as Lady Rutland sank to her knees beneath the Queen’s weight, her mistress’s head pillowed on her skirts. A gaggle of frightened and curious maids of honour suddenly materialised and hovered around them uselessly, but Lady Rutland ignored them. As she looked down at her mistress’s ashen, deathly still face, she felt silent prayers bubbling up inside her. They spilled out on her lips and she let them come, trying to hide her fear in front of the young girls. 

What if the Queen didn’t wake up? Everyone knew Her Grace and the Princess of Wales had been at loggerheads over the Spanish marriage for years. If, God forbid, the Princess did ascend the throne now, there was no chance she’d want her mother’s women around her. Which meant all their positions would be in jeopardy.

Lady Rutland bowed her head, fear filling her mind. _“If Elizabeth dies, what’s going to happen to all of us?”_

* * *

The bedchamber was dark and shuttered. It stank of death. Death and failure. Helen Russell, the Queen’s Chief Physician and Midwife, sighed as she removed her fingers from the wrist of the corpse that had so recently been Elizabeth Howard, Queen of England.

“It’s no good, Lady Wentworth. It was out of my hands. It always is when someone suffers a heart attack like this. One can only watch and pray to the Lord Almighty that they have the strength to come through it.”

“Are you saying…?” Mistress Wentworth couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. Mistress Russell nodded, crossing herself, “May God and the Virgin have mercy on her soul.”

Mistress Wentworth followed suit, her jaw working furiously as she fought to control herself against the waves of shock denial and grief that were bound to come.

“I’ll go and wake Lord Ormonde. He can write to Ludlow, Edinburgh and Oviedo and declare Court mourning."

Her voice was louder than necessary as she struggled to keep it from cracking. Whatever Elizabeth Howard’s fault, he had been a kind, generous mistress to those who served her. Moreover, she had ruled England unchallenged for over twenty-five years. There was a whole generation who remembered no other Queen. And for all the Princess had been raised to rule, she had largely grown up in the Welsh Marches, out of the London consciousness. There would many within the walls of Westminster that night who, like Joan Manners, Lady Rutland and Mistress Margery Wentworth, wept for the Queen they knew and waited apprehensively for the Queen they did not.


	16. Chapter XV - Part II: The Rose of March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly late birthday present for TheAwesomeWriter, who has long been a loyal reader of mine. Sorry, I had intended to put this up yesterday in honour of the actual day, but had computer trouble, as ever... Enjoy and many happy returns!

**Chapter XV**

Anne was shooting arrows with her closest circle on a frosty morning in the first week of November when the news of her mother’s death reached Ludlow. Sybil and Meg stood either side of her, watching as she drew back the string of her bow with a grace that betrayed what a skillful huntress she was, while Susan, unable to help herself, was keeping a half-maternal eye on little Bessie Sinclair, who played merrily nearby, well wrapped up against the cold. Bessie’s uncle, meanwhile, was taking his turn at a butt not far from the Princess.

It was a mark of how high Henry now stood in Anne’s favour that no one thought to question why he wasn’t going about his duties in the Prince’s household, or why his little niece was with them, rather than being in her house in the town or shut away in the nursery inside the castle. Indeed, they only laughed indulgently as the little girl trotted boldly up to Anne and tugged at her skirts.

“I made you something, My Lady,” she chirped.

“What’s that, Bessie?” Anne smiled, bending down and sweeping the child into her arms, handling her with far more confidence than she ever did her own son.

“I made you something,” Bessie repeated proudly, holding her creation out for Anne’s inspection. It consisted of several sprigs of holly and ivy knotted together with cobalt and white hair ribbons into some vague semblance of a loop.

“It’s a crown!” Bessie was too impatient to wait for Anne to examine her gift properly and blurted out what it was only a moment after it had left her tiny hand. Anne’s face cleared and she beamed, her heart warmed by the tiny girl’s infectious smile.

“Of course it is. And a beautiful one too. I’ll wager thirty crowns my mother doesn’t have anything as fine as this in any of her palaces in London. Will you help me put it on?”

Bessie’s head bobbed eagerly as she fitted the crooked loop on to Anne’s head, small hands trembling with the excitement of being allowed such an important job.

“She’s a lovely child,” Susan murmured to Henry, as he stepped back from the butt he had been shooting at to allow Eliza to take her turn. He joined her and they watched Anne set Bessie on her feet again and crouch down beside her, taking the tiny hand in hers to show her how to nock an arrow and draw back the bow.

“The Princess is incredibly good with her,” Henry whispered back, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of spoiling the magic. Peaceful days like this had been only all too rare at Ludlow in recent years, and they were all still getting used to the fact that they happened with far more regularity now that the Princess’s annulment had been granted.

“Her Highness always wanted children. It’s an absolute delight to watch her enjoying Mistress Elizabeth’s company.”

“Practicing for the future, hmm?”

“Indeed, Sir Henry.”

By tacit agreement, neither of them mentioned the eleven-month-old Prince languishing in his suite of rooms in the castle behind them. Though Anne would die rather than admit it, and still tried to deceive others into thinking her a doting mother, they both knew her too well to be taken in by her act. There was no way she would ever treat young Richard in such a carefree manner. Her relationship with him was too fraught and uncomfortable for that.

Silence stretched between them for a moment, before Susan ventured a question, keen to satisfy herself on a point that had exercised her curiosity for months.

“Forgive me, Sir Henry, but if I may ask…how did you come to take custody of Mistress Elizabeth? It is unusual for an uncle to take charge of his niece.”

A more prolonged silence met Susan’s question and she began to wonder if she had been too outspoken.

“I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn. You don’t have to answer if it brings up uncomfortable memories.”

“No. You have nothing to be sorry for, Lady Susanna. Your curiosity is only natural,” Henry shook his head and shrugged, “My brother’s wife was disinherited for making a foreign match. For all she was no great heiress, her relatives still felt she could do better than a foreign Countess’s son. Hence, they refused to have anything to do with little Bessie after Arthur and Katherine died. My sister Margaret is Her Majesty’s envoy to Flanders, so therefore deemed unsuitable to act as a mother figure to Bessie and my younger sister Mary has barely come of age herself. My father and grandmother offered, but Arthur and Katherine never wanted them to take charge of Bessie. They feared they would condemn her to a convent, which is a fate neither of them wanted for their only daughter.”

Henry paused, and Susan was about to ask another question when they were interrupted by the thunder of hooves. They swung round, as everyone did, to see what was going on. Half a dozen black-clothed riders were galloping up the rise towards them.

“My father.”

Henry heard Anne’s whisper behind him and then her voice changed to that of the chatelaine of Ludlow Castle.

“Meg, take Mistress Elizabeth back to the castle, please. Whatever news my father brings, I doubt this is going to be any place for a child.”

“Yes, My Lady Princess,” Meg took Bessie by the hand, curtsied and was gone. Thankfully, Bessie, as if sensing something wasn’t right, didn’t protest at being led away. Henry watched their retreating backs for a few moments, before the stony faces of the riders thundering up the rise caught his attention. Instinctively, he moved to protect Anne, to shield her from whatever was coming. The Duke of Ormonde outmanoeuvred him, however.

Scarcely pausing to draw rein, he flung himself off his horse and ran towards his daughter, urgency making him wear his years, which were swiftly mounting past the two-score, more lightly than usual. No words passed between them before he knelt, bowing his head. His grim visage, and those of his companions, who mirrored his actions, spoke more than a thousand words.

“Papa?” Anne, try as she might, couldn’t keep her voice from shaking.

“Majesty.” Thomas Howard replied respectfully.

For a long moment, nobody moved. No one dared try to preempt their new sovereign’s reaction. Gradually, however, as she remained frozen, they sank, one-by-one, into obeisance. Anne stared unseeingly over their bent heads for a few seconds, then reached out to her father with a shaking hand.

“Papa…” she repeated, a definitely pleading note in her voice.

Thomas sprang to his feet and opened his arms, knowing comforting his daughter was more important than adhering to protocol. Anne buried her face in his shoulder, fierce waves of silent sobs sending shudders through her young body.

* * *

“Sybil shall be my Stewardess of Tutbury and we’ll raise her to Duchess of Suffolk rather than Countess, as well as letting her be my Chief Lady of the Bedchamber. Susan can be Mistress of the Robes and Eliza can be my Stewardess of the Household. Meg’s a Percy; she’ll have matters of defence in her blood. I shall make her Wardeness General of the Northern Marches.”

Anne stood by the fire in her private study, huddled against the sudden onset of bitter November cold in her ermine-trimmed mourning cloak. She was dictating orders almost faster than her secretary, Lucy Vaughan, could write. It had been three days since the news of Elizabeth’s unexpected death had interrupted Anne’s shooting and indulging little Bessie. Anne had spent the intervening period closeted in her bedchamber with only her father and the Graces for company, but she had now returned to public life. And although her eyes were still shadowed with grief, they also glinted with determination. She had cried all the tears she was going to cry for her mother. Now it was time to stamp her own seal upon England.

“I shall also create my beloved son Richard Marquis of Monmouth and Montagu. Let no one think that just because my marriage to his father has been annulled, I do not consider the Prince my lawful heir. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“Would it not be more prudent to create His Highness a Duke in that case, Madam?” Mistress Vaughan ventured, “After all, on the rare occasions England has not been blessed with a Princess to continue the succession, the reigning Queen has created her son a Duke. So it was with the late Queen Mary of Lancaster, who created Your Majesty’s great-great-grandfather Duke of Lancaster and Ormonde.”

Anne raised her eyes to meet those of her secretary menacingly slowly, “Are you saying, Mistress Vaughan, that you do not believe I will yet become mother to a Princess of Wales? Need I remind you that ill-wishing your monarch could be construed as treason.”

“No, no, Madam. Forgive me, I misspoke,” Lucy Vaughan said hurriedly, reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment, “I’ll draw the patent up immediately.”

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Anne smiled, but there was a hint of warning about the curve of her lips, “Make Monmouth Castle and Conway Castle over to His Highness too, so that he might have a residence befitting a Prince of England when I send him to a household of his own.”

Mistress Vaughan nodded, making a few quick slashes with her quill as Anne paused, then crossed to the table. She picked up a paperweight and tossed it from hand to hand with studied carelessness as she uttered her next words.

“I intend to name Sir Henry Plantagenet my Master of Horse and Hounds, and grant him the use of and the revenues from the manor of Chelsea as well, so that he may raise his niece Mistress Sinclair as befits her station.”

Mistress Vaughan was too experienced in the vagaries of the former Princess of Wales’s mood to really show her surprise this time, but she couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the Duke of Ormonde, who stood by the door, out of his daughter’s sight. This wasn’t the first time Her Grace had shown marked favour to Sir Henry Plantagenet. If she didn’t rein herself in soon, questions would begin to be asked about the propriety of their relationship.

Fortunately for Mistress Vaughan, the Duke of Ormonde was not slow to pick up on the subtle implications of her glance. He gave her a nod, one so small that even his usually eagle-eyed daughter might have missed it. He’d let Anne’s behaviour slip for the moment. She could afford to indulge herself for now, given how keen the country always was to forgive the misdemeanours of their new Queens, especially ones as young and pretty as his daughter. But that benevolent mood wouldn’t last forever. If Anne continued in this vein, he’d have no choice but to warn her what her conduct looked like in the eyes of the country.

* * *

Two weeks later, Anne rode into London, gold and white banners snapping above her head.

It was the wrong time of year for her people to be greeting her with flowers, but they thronged the streets regardless, cheering themselves hoarse for their beautiful new Queen and pressing small trinkets of winter berries and ribbons into her hand as she rode past. If the members of her mother’s former Court awaited Anne with some trepidation, then the common people of London had no such fears. They had always loved the eldest daughter of the House of Howard. They had supported her through the trials of her Spanish marriage and now that she had returned to rule them herself, their joy knew no bounds. What did it matter to them that she didn’t yet have a daughter in the cradle? She was gorgeous and charming and young enough to mother a whole gaggle of daughters as soon as she married again. And suitors would no doubt soon be flocking to vie for her hand; she was currently the greatest marriage prize in all of Christendom.

“Long Live the Queen! Long Live the flower of England!”

Anne basked in the crowd’s adulation. Raven hair streaming behind her, she beamed down upon all she saw and proved what a skilled horsewoman she was by controlling her dappled mount one-handed as she acknowledged her subjects’ cheers with a shower of silver shillings. The coins sparkled in the wintry sunshine as she flung them high and wide.

And when the Mayoress’s little daughter, Sarah Billington, made her curtsy and welcomed her to London in a high clear voice, Anne’s reaction cemented her place in the hearts of all the guildswomen in the city.

“Thank you, little lady. That was a lovely speech you’ve learnt for me. What’s your name?”

“Sarah, my Lady Queen.”

“That’s a pretty name. A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

So saying, Anne slipped from the saddle so that she knelt beside Sarah. Unpinning one of the sprigs of winter berries she had been gifted earlier that morning from her hair, she gave it to Sarah to hold while she unclasped a sliver chain from the belt of her emerald riding habit. Then she took the chain, wove it through Sarah’s fair hair and tucked the berries in at her temple, so that the effect was like that of jewels in a crown.

“There. Now you can rule your schoolmates the way your mother rules the alderwomen in my name, hmm?”

Sarah nodded solemnly, eyes widening with first awe and then glee as Anne continued, “Should you like to ride into the city with me?”

“Yes please, Your Majesty!”

“Help Lady Sarah on to my horse, Sir Henry,” Anne straightened up and beckoned to her new Master of Horse, deliberately granting Sarah a grander title than was truly hers in order to make the child smile. Henry nodded and swept Sarah a bow so flamboyant it made her giggle despite the solemnity of the occasion.

“May I, Lady Sarah?”

Sarah looked up at Anne, wanting desperately to say something more formal than the gleeful yes that was springing to her lips, but not knowing what the proper words were for such a situation. Sensing her dilemma, Anne smiled and bent down to whisper the correct response into her ear.

“With pleasure, Sir Henry,” Sarah giggled, blushing at the honour of being treated like a great lady by the Queen and her favoured Knight himself. Henry smiled at her obvious pleasure and swung her into the saddle as a liveried maid ran forward to hold the horse’s head. Then he turned to Anne and knelt to boost her into the saddle as well.

“Madam,” he breathed.

Anne swung into the saddle and slid her arms around Sarah’s waist to keep her safe before she turned to look down at the young man who knelt at her feet.

“Thank you, Sir Henry,” she smiled, “Or I should say, thank you, Lord Plantagenet.”

Henry looked up in surprise and Anne leaned down and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, “You’ve been a loyal servant to me and to my son ever since you joined us at Ludlow, Sir Henry. For that, I name you Baron Plantagenet of Blackheath and Chelsea.”

Henry’s jaw dropped, but before he could respond, Anne straightened up and nudged her horse forward with her heels.

She trotted through the gates of London, Sarah nestled protectively in her hold. Their first few paces were taken in silence, but as the shock of Sir Henry’s casual elevation to the peerage began to wear off, the crowd warmed to the sight of their new Queen treating one of their own so graciously. Anne and Sarah rode through the gates of London and on to Baynard’s Castle being cheered to the rafters.

 


	17. XVI: Roses II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Have a nice long chapter to mark the start of 2017!

**Chapter XVI**

Anne lost no time in securing her power in London. The sun had not even set upon her triumphal entry into the city before she was summoning her Council to her. And, with the oaths of allegiance over, there was only one matter that the councillors wanted to discuss. It was not that, as a whole, they begrudged their young sovereign having successfully freed herself from the yoke of her Spanish marriage – though there were those among them, having been fierce adherents of the late Queen Elizabeth, resented Anne for having humiliated her mother over the matter. However, no matter what their personal sympathies, the ladies of the Privy Council were universally alarmed at the implication the failure of Anne’s marriage could have on England’s foreign policy, especially with Anglo-Scottish relations far less harmonious than they had hoped since the Duchess of Gloucester had wed King James. They were more than eager to urge their new Queen to secure herself a new foreign alliance by taking a new husband.

“If Your Majesty would only consider at least making overtures towards France or Burgundy. I hear that, since the death of the Dauphine Claude fifteen months ago, Prince Philip…”

“Lady Winchester, my mother is not yet cold in her grave. I would be the first to admit that the two of us did not see eye to eye on many things, but to enter into diplomatic negotiations with her less than a month dead would simply be unseemly,” Anne’s studied, polite response could not be called anything other than icy.

“Her Majesty would not have minded, Your Grace,” Lady Rutland defended, “She knew how important diplomacy was.”

“I know all about my mother’s love for appeasing Europe, Lady Rutland. You need not remind me,” Anne snapped, before she could stop herself, exchanging a look with Sybil, Meg and Eliza, who sat clustered around her at the head of the table. Thomas, whom Anne had waved to a seat at her shoulder, as befitted a favoured councillor, reached out and placed a calming hand on his daughter’s shoulder. There were some gasps at his audacity, but he ignored them. Keeping Anne from antagonising the older members of her Council, who were used to having significant influence over matters in London, was too important.

Fortunately, his actions bore the desired fruit. Although Anne sighed impatiently and closed her eyes, when she spoke again, her voice was much calmer.

“Forgive me, Lady Rutland. Lady Winchester. I know you spoke only out of your love for this country and thus I appreciate your advice in the spirit it was given. But I truly do not think that opening negotiations for my hand just now would be appropriate. The rest of Christendom would think that I did not mourn my mother sincerely and that could damage England’s international standing. Besides, need I remind you that the heiress to Spain, who practically rules as her mother’s regent in Castile, is married to my most beloved brother? George will always defend our interests at the Spanish Court, of that you may be sure, Ladies. And I would remind you, also, that the King of Scots offered me his support during my annulment, both when he came to England to marry my sister and again through his Lady Ambassador, the Abbess of Ross before the trial actually started. His Grace’s warm words and respect, both for myself and for my beloved younger sister, lead me to believe that matters between our countries are not so delicate for it to be imperative that we open negotiations with suitors immediately. Moreover – and here I defer to your greater wisdom, ladies, for I called Ludlow home for so long that I am not quite sure how things are done in London – is it not conventional for an unmarried Queen to shore up her power by at the very least being coroneted before she seeks a husband?”

“In the case of a fragile dynasty, yes. But Your Majesty follows four other Howard Queens. None would dream of challenging your rule,” Lady Rutland hurried to reassure her, but the majority of the Council were already nodding, “Of course, Madam! Of course you must take your throne officially and then let matters settle before choosing a new husband.”

“Good,” Anne favoured the Council table with a winning smile, “I am glad we are agreed, ladies.”

She rose, “You are dismissed.”

Without another word, somehow sensing that they had displeased their new mistress and would not find her willing to discuss any other matters now, the Council stood as one, curtsied and filed out, Eliza, Meg and Sybil following suit after a glance at their mistress. Thomas, however, paused, hovering on the edge of Anne’s vision as she swept her papers aside for the secretaries to clear and prepared to return to her own rooms.

“Yes, Papa?” she said at last, glancing up at him. As she did so, he was struck by her poise. Gone was the bright-eyed little girl who had snaked her arms around his neck confidingly and whispered all her secrets to him. Gone, also, was the exuberant fourteen-year-old who had flung herself into his arms on the steps of Blackfriars. Even the shaken young woman who had sobbed in his embrace only two and a half weeks earlier had vanished. The onyx eyes, so like his own, which he had more than once referred to as her ‘dark hooks for the soul’, were cool and shuttered, hiding their emotions beneath a façade so deep that even he couldn’t penetrate it.

For the first time, he felt a flicker of unease about the conversation he was about to instigate.

“Your Majesty…I…” he hesitated and Anne smiled encouragingly at him.

“Anne, please, Papa. I was your Anne long before I was your Queen.”

“Anne then,” he chuckled, warmed despite his nerves at the re-emergence of her habitual familiarity.

“You look troubled. Is it something I can help with?”

“Not exactly,” Thomas hedged, exhaling, “It’s…look…Dare I ask, Anne, what your relationship is with Sir Henry Plantagenet? You favour him so openly. Questions are beginning to be asked.”

“Then let them be asked. Do I not deserve to enjoy a young man’s company for once?”

“Of course you do,” Thomas soothed, “But there’s a difference between enjoying his company and naming him your Master of Horse and Hounds, and Baron Plantagenet of Blackheath and Chelsea, especially as publicly as you did the latter.”

“Sir Henry is a loyal servant. He deserved his office,” Anne retorted.

“No man has ever received a title in their own right before, sweetheart. Not unless they were either Princes of the Blood or later raised to the rank of Consort. You have to understand what this looks like.”

Anne arched an eyebrow as her father pleaded with her, “Consorts are traditionally made Dukes, like you were, Papa. Maybe a Marquis, at the very least. In either case, I could hardly marry a Baron.”

“That doesn’t matter. Giving Sir Henry a title at all and in such an informal, public setting…You must have known what you were doing.”

At Thomas’s words, Anne sighed. She’d never been able to hide things from her father. She spread her hands. “Have you ever known me to be utterly blind to consequences, Papa? Of course I knew what I was doing.”

Thomas’s jaw dropped, “You can’t seriously be thinking of marrying Henry Plantagenet?”

“Why not? His sister is Countess of March and Richmond; his ancestresses include some of the finest women in England. How can you insinuate that he’s not good enough for me?!”

Anne was flushed with fury, teetering on the verge of an explosion of rage. Thomas quickly took hold of her wrist and watched as she visibly struggled to regain her self-control.

“I’m not arguing with Sir Henry’s bloodline, darling,” he promised, as soon as she had calmed enough to listen to him, “If you weren’t the Queen, I’d be more than happy to allow you to marry him without protest. But you can’t forget your station. Not this early in your reign. Do you want to become the laughing stock of Europe?”

“Mother was the laughing stock of Europe when she married you. I don’t seem to recall that being an impediment to her status on the Continent once George, Mary and I were born. Surely securing the Succession with a Princess of Wales is the important thing? What does it marry who her father is?

“It matters because England’s diplomatic status is nowhere near as strong as we might have hoped it would be upon your accession. We need more alliances, Anne, and you’re the only one who can give them to us.”

“Might I remind you, as I reminded my Council earlier, King James resented Mother, not me? And Spain is far less of a problem since Queen Isabella required a Regent thanks to her ill health. There isn’t as pressing a need for me to marry a foreign Prince as you might think.”

Anne’s voice was surprisingly harsh as she chided her father. He met her eye calmly.

“Listen to me. You are the Queen. Your marriage is a matter of state. Think about it. In your heart of hearts, you know where your true duty lies.”

Thomas knew he had said the wrong thing the moment the words left his lips. Anne’s face closed and she flinched away from him.

“I married for the sake of duty once. Look what it brought me. Seven years of misery and a son who screams himself sick if I so much as look at him wrong. No, Papa. I’m sorry, but I will not yield this time. I will marry Sir Henry Plantagenet and thus it will be, grudge who grudge.”

She swung around, turning her back on him. Thomas thought himself dismissed and began to head for the door when she suddenly spoke again, her voice far softer than it had been in recent moments.

“You promised me I could marry whomever I wanted,” she whispered, “You promised me that, if I married John to please Mother, I’d be able to annul our marriage and marry whomever I wanted as soon as I came of age. Are you going to go back on that now?”

Thomas’s heart sank. He’d hoped she’d forgotten about that rash promise he’d made when he’d been desperate to make her acquiesce to her mother’s wishes and marry the Prince of Castile, all those years ago.

“No, Anne,” he said at last, as she turned to face him, “I’m not going back on it. If you truly wish to marry Sir Henry, then I will support you. But your annulment is hardly dry on the page. Your mother is scarcely a month dead. How can you think of making a decision this momentous in the midst of all this turmoil? Give yourself a few months to reconsider, that’s all I ask.”

A long silence followed Thomas’s words and he thought Anne was going to refuse, but at last she exhaled, “My coronation is set for Twelfth Night, Papa. I give you my word that nothing shall be set in motion before then. My solemn word.”

And with that, Thomas had to be content, for Anne swept from the room before he could utter another word.

* * *

The messengers sent to Edinburgh bearing tidings of both Anne’s successful annulment and Elizabeth’s death were sent so close together and both delayed by such bad weather that they ended up riding into the grounds of Falkland Palace, where the King and the Duchess of Orkney were keeping the festive season prior to the Duchess’s first confinement, mere hours apart. Hence, King James was left trying to digest both pieces of news at once.

“So my dear sister Anne is free of both her husband and her mother, hmm?”

James steepled his fingers for a moment and then pushed his hand through his auburn hair impatiently, trying to think what was best to do.

It was at times like this that he missed his mother most. She’d always seemed to have been born with statecraft running through her veins, whereas James, much though he enjoyed the strategems of war, often struggled with the delicate intricacies of international relations. Mind, even she had never had to deal with her Consort’s sister both annulling her marriage and becoming Queen in her own right within a matter of weeks. Maybe even she would have struggled with this knotty matter. Especially if her Consort’s acceptance had been as tentative and reluctant as Mary’s was.

Oh, Lord. Mary. She was going to take this news so hard. She was so clearly her mother’s daughter. Why, James could barely remember a week when a courier hadn’t been sent flying between Holyrood and Westminster, bearing a missive from the Duchess of Orkney to her mother or vice versa. The Court disapproved, but he’d been loath to stop it. He knew he ought to have done; ought to have insisted that Mary become a Scottish Duchess rather than an English Princess, but he knew that the letters were a highlight in Mary’s life, her lifeline in a Court that was barely better than hostile to her. The Scottish nobles, while they treated Mary with outward respect, had never truly forgiven her for not being her older sister. His wanting Mary to be as comfortable as possible was also the reason he had never sent home her English ladies, even though he would have been well within his rights to do so. Mary might not have been his ideal choice of bride, but he wasn’t a vindictive man. He wasn’t cruel enough to want to utterly isolate her and make her dependent upon him.

“I take it you’ve not informed the Duchess of these developments, Lady Lennox?”

“No, Sire,” Lady Lennox, James’s secretary, bristled. How dare His Majesty insinuate that she might have been so remiss in her duties as to report to the English hussy before her true master? What could Mary Howard possibly have done to have earned such respect, even if the women in question were her mother and sister? She was naught but a spoilt child who still thought hiding her face in her governess’s lap was acceptable behaviour. Everyone knew what a storm she’d kicked up when Lady Guilford had suggested that, as a mother-to-be, perhaps it was time her Grace took more than nominal charge of her own household and tried to tender her resignation. The Palace had reeked of tears and bitterness for weeks. In the end, His Majesty had had to intervene and secure a promise that Lady Guilford would stay on at least until the child was born, if not longer. Which could only be considered beneath his dignity.

Lady Lennox harrumphed at the memory and, in so doing, jolted her monarch out of his reverie.

“That’s just as well. I would not have Her Grace distressed in her delicate condition,” James paused, collected his thoughts and went on, “You may tell her of her sister’s annulment, if she asks, but leave the matter of Queen Elizabeth’s death to me. I will find the appropriate time to tell her.”

“Yes, Sire,” Lady Lennox dipped her head obediently.

“Write the appropriate letters to London. Offer both our condolences and our congratulations on the various matters. But do not declare Court mourning. Explain to Queen Anne why we are not doing so, to make sure she does not fear it is out of a lack of respect for her lady mother. Inform her that we hope that we can take this opportunity, sad though it is, to let bygones be bygones and create a fresh start in the sadly fraught relationship between our two glorious nations.”

Lady Lennox pursed her lips, but said nothing.

“Poor Anne. It wasn’t her fault, all those years ago. She deserves to be free of him at last.”

James’s words were murmured half to himself. When Lady Lennox asked him what he’d said, he started, having forgotten she was still in the room.

“Nothing! Nothing! You may go.”

“Majesty,” Lady Lennox curtsied and withdrew. James watched her go absently, then resumed his pacing around the room.

So. England had a new Queen. It remained to be seen what this meant for Scotland.

* * *

“You wanted to see me, Your Majesty,” Henry sank to one knee as Anne turned towards him. She waved him up impatiently and held a steaming goblet of claret out to him.

“Yes. I wanted to ask you something.”

Henry bowed, “You know you only have to ask, My Lady Queen. I live to serve you. If it is within my power, I shall grant you your wish.”

“Then you’ll be my champion on my coronation day?”

“And forever after, I should hope. After all, was I not christened Lancelot to Your Grace’s Queen Guinevere by my own niece?”

Henry looked up after that reply, laughter in his eyes, to find that Anne had stepped towards him. She reached out and placed a soft hand on his cheek.

“Thank you, Lord Plantagenet. That was the answer I was hoping you would give. There is no man I would rather have at my right hand than you.”

Unable to help himself, Henry caught her hand between both of his. They stared deep into each other’s eyes. It was like that moment in the stable yard all over again.

“Kiss me, Henry,” The plea left Anne’s lips before she’d even realised she’d formed it. The charged air between them was suddenly, to her mind, unbearable, “Kiss me and tell me I have your heart, as you have mine.”

Henry began to obey her, then pulled back sharply, shaking his head.

“No,” he said roughly, “I’ll not do this, My Lady. Not now. You’re barely free. You’re not even crowned. How do I know this is what you really want?”

“It is! Isn’t it what you want?”

“Yes!” He couldn’t stop the word escaping, “Of course it is. It’s what I’ve wanted ever since I first saw you. But I won’t take advantage of a girl who’s been through so much that her heart and mind and soul must be reeling. I won’t just be a recoil; a way for you to get a step ahead of your Council. If you marry me, I want it to be because you love me and not just because you want to avoid another marriage of state. Prove that to me, Your Grace, and I will be yours, heart and body and soul.”

So saying, he pushed himself out of her arms, “Have I your leave to go, Your Grace?”

Anne made to protest, then forced the words to die on her lips. She would not humble her pride by begging him to stay.

“You do, My Lord. I will look for you on Twelfth Night.”

She never knew how she kept her voice from breaking.

As Henry bowed and retreated, letting the doors swing shut behind him, Anne sank to her knees, weeping over his refusal as she had never wept for her mother.

* * *

Henry’s sister Margaret didn’t take to his actions too kindly either. Having come home from Flanders to swear allegiance to her new Queen, she heard the rumours about her brother’s conduct with Her Majesty and started to watch the pair with her characteristic eagle-eyed gaze. Yet she was flummoxed by the disparity between the gossip and their conduct towards one another. The first had Henry as Anne’s only confidant; the only man she would ever listen to, the one whose lightest word shaped her policy. In person, however, the two barely spoke beyond exchanging the most formal of pleasantries, if they interacted at all. Most of the time, they avoided each other as though they feared some sort of contagion. When the news reached her ears as to why the once almost-inseparable pair were now barely to be found in the same room as one another, she summoned her brother to her rooms, determined to give him a piece of her mind.

“I hear the Queen asked you to marry her. Is it true?”

“It’s nice to see you too, sister,” Henry retorted, a touch of acid in his voice. He went over to his younger sister, Mary and kissed her on the cheek, before turning back to Margaret, who waved away his proffered fraternal affection. She didn’t have time for trivialities.

“Did she or didn’t she?”

“It is true,” he muttered reluctantly.

“So why are you not at her side? Why am I not bending the knee to you and calling you Your Grace? Why won’t she even look at you?”

“Because I refused her. She was overwrought and confused when she asked me and I will not accept her as my bride with her state of mind the way it is. It would be unbecoming of me as a knight to do so.”

Henry did not expect Margaret to react in the way that she did. He expected her to understand, indeed, to praise him for being so chivalrous as not to push the young Queen into anything, but instead, she slapped him so hard the blow rang through the room.

“You refused the Queen? You had her in the palm of your hand, asking you to marry her, and you refused her? My God, Henry, how stupid can you be? You could have made this family the most powerful in the land and you wasted it!”

“I didn’t want Her Grace to rush into anything and regret it! Her Majesty has had one unhappy marriage already, I will not see her condemned to another, even if it would be to my advantage. I care for Her Grace too much for that.”

Mary sighed at the romanticism of his words, but Margaret harrumphed impatiently, “Christ, you sound utterly lovesick. And what happens when she marries another, hmm? What happens when she allows her Council to persuade her into marriage to say, a French Prince, because she’s young, beautiful and free and they think they need an alliance? Tell me what happens then. Could you really continue to serve her, knowing you had had the chance to sit at her side on that golden dais and you’d blown it? Could you?”

“That won’t happen. Her Grace has done her duty once, she won’t be forced into anything a second time.”

“You sound remarkably sure about that. Do you really know our young Queen as well as you think you do?”

“I do,” Henry assured his sister, relieved to note that, while her voice remained tight, she had at least stopped shouting at him. It appeared she was willing to listen to reason after all, “Look, I know you think I’ve blown this, that I will have to stand aside and serve Her Majesty as she laughs and dances with another Consort, but I haven’t. It won’t come to that, I promise. Her Grace might be angry with me now, but she still wants me as her champion on her coronation day. She’ll forgive me, I’m sure of it. She’ll forgive me and how much more will she give me – give us – if she thinks she has to woo me?”

He knew he had struck the right chord with his ambitious sister the moment his words died away. Her cat-green eyes gleamed and she swung away from him, clearly struggling with herself.

“Fine,” she growled at last, “You’ve left me no choice but to agree to play this game your way. But I warn you, if you’ve miscalculated, if you’ve cost this family the advancement it deserves, I will make you wish you’d never been born. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Henry swore, snaking his arms around her waist and kissing her hair, “But have a little faith, my darling sister. Our time has come, I promise.”

* * *

Susan knew something was wrong. Even though Anne smiled and danced and laughed, the way a young Queen on the verge of her coronation ought to, she knew her mistress well enough to know her heart wasn’t really in it. The sparkle had left her eyes and the music was gone from her voice.

And when she saw how studiously Anne avoided the new Baron of Blackheath and Chelsea, having surrounded herself almost exclusively with his company not a fortnight earlier, she began to realise why.

So, one night when she knew Sybil was helping Anne prepare for bed and the two of them would most likely be alone, she opened the door and slipped in.

They had their backs to her, Sybil drawing a heavy, ivory-backed brush through Anne’s raven hair by the flickering light of the fire. Susan exhaled softly with relief. Brushing Anne’s hair always relaxed her. She was bound to be both more open and more reasonable than she would otherwise be now.

She stepped forward, just in time to hear Anne say, “I thought we might hawk tomorrow, if the weather holds. You, me, just the group of us it used to be, before everything changed.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Sybil smiled, “It would be good to spend some time together again, the way we used to back at Ludlow. I’ll let the others know, shall I?”

“Please,” Anne replied. Susan could resist no longer.

“Will you invite Lord Plantagenet to join us, My Lady?” she asked, keeping her voice casual as she continued into the room so that she could catch Anne’s eye in the mirror before the other woman could avert her gaze. As she expected, hurt flared briefly, before Anne had regained her exemplary poise.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not? He rode out with us plenty of times at Ludlow, and you know how much he loves hawking.”

“That’s as may be, but I don’t think it would be fitting. I’ve been showing the Baron too much favour lately. It’s time I put some distance between us.”

Anne’s voice might have been cool, but Susan knew her well enough to know that was just a façade…a façade on the very edge of cracking. And then Sybil, bless her, said exactly the right thing to tip her over the edge.

“Who’s been telling you that? Whoever it is, they’re being a fool. You’re Queen of England and God knows you suffered enough with your marriage to the Spanish ass. Ignore them. If you want to spend time with Sir Henry, do so. If anyone has anything to say, they’ll have to go through me first.”

In their privacy, Sybil had slipped back into treating Anne with the same familiarity as she had always done. Gone were the deference and titles. In their place was a fiery older sister, ready to spring to the defence of the younger woman. For an instant, it was almost as if they were back in the nursery at Eltham, or at least the schoolroom they had shared in the days of their early life at Ludlow. In the face of it Anne scoffed lightly, half-chuckling, “That’s very kind of you, Sybil, but I don’t think it will help. Not when the man himself doesn’t want to spend time with me.”

“What? Why? I thought you enjoyed one another’s company,” Susan kept her voice carefully disingenuous. Anne sniffed, and Susan knew they almost had it. Anne’s voice was trembling on the brink of tears as she replied.

“We did.” She averted her eyes, gazing awkwardly into the distance. After a lengthy silence, she admitted, “We still do. But I ruined it.”

“What did you do?” Sybil laughed, with warm, half-exasperated candour.

“I asked him to marry me!”

 Anne blanched the moment she’d blurted those words, as though she instantly regretted her honesty, but once the floodgates were opened, they couldn’t be bolted again, “I asked him to kiss me and marry me, but he refused me. He said I was confused and didn’t know what I was asking him. He said he didn’t want to be a recoil, a pawn in my battle for power with my Council. He only wanted me to marry him if I was sure I truly loved him. He refused me and I don’t know what to do!”

“Do you love him?” Sybil put the question far more bluntly than Susan would have done, but it worked. Anne, who had been on the edge of hysteria, was brought up short and she stared blankly at the older woman as she pressed, “Well? Do you?”

“I couldn’t imagine ruling England without him.”

The words were on Anne’s lips so quickly, so instinctively, that they had to be honest. Susan exchanged a glance with Sybil.

“Well, I hardly pretend to know the young Baron particularly well, Anne,” she said slowly, “You and Eliza have spent more time with him in recent months than either of us has. But it seems to me that if he wants you to prove your love for him, then that’s what you’re going to have to do. And there is one thing that has become clear to me. Sir Henry is a family man. He cares deeply for those who share his blood. If you want to prove yourself to him, then maybe that would be a good place to start.”

* * *

 _“Sir Henry is a family man._ _He cares deeply for those who share his blood. If you want to prove yourself to him, then maybe that would be a good place to start,_ ” Susan’s sage, if cryptic, words rang in Anne’s ears as she woke one morning the week before her coronation. She lay in bed, musing them over.

And then it crashed over her in a breaking wave of clarity. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? How better to prove her love for him than to take his burdens – however charming they might be – on as her own?

“Send a maid for Lady Warwick,” she ordered as she leaped from bed and pulled an ermine robe about her slender shoulders, “And one for Lady Vaughan.”

“Yes, Madam,” Meg looked momentarily puzzled, but raced to do her old friend’s bidding and it wasn’t long before Lady Warwick was curtsying before Anne.

“Your Grace.”

Anne paused, letting the woman remain in her obeisance as she studied her. The Countess of Warwick was a plump woman in her late thirties with gleaming gold hair and a warm, rounded face. She reminded Anne heavily of her own nurse, Lady Anne Tyrell, who had served her until she was six and had been moved to Lady Parr’s care.

“Look at me,” she commanded, beckoning the older woman to rise, noting the kindly spark in the grey eyes as they met her own.

“Do you know your languages, Lady Warwick?”

“French and Latin, yes, Your Majesty.”

“And your music?”

“Singing, the lute and the harpsichord have long been passions of mine, Madam,”

“And of course, your late mother is remembered as one of the most gracious women ever to grace the halls of the English Court.”

If Lady Warwick was surprised at this grilling of her and her abilities, she was too skilled a courtier to show it. She dipped down into another half-curtsy.

“You honour my mother’s memory with your words, My Lady Queen. Sadly, I barely remember her, for I was but three when she died in childbirth. I was raised by my aunt, the Lady Anne Beauchamp. But she too was gracious.”

“So I remember my father telling me. He was very fond of her when they were young,” Anne murmured.

A slight silence stretched between them before Anne posed the most important question of all.

“Have you children, Lady Warwick?”

“The Lord has blessed me with five, Your Grace.”

“Then you know what they like…and what they can be like.”

“I would like to think so, yes, Madam.”

“Good. Now, a little girl will be joining the court soon from my domains in Wales. I would like you to take charge of her for me. If you serve me well in this, well, you never know. Other children may find their way into your care one day.”

The implication was clear. Lady Warwick coloured, sweeping to the floor, “You honour me, Your Majesty.”

“I am glad you are pleased, “Anne beamed, “You may go. Send Lady Vaughan to me on your way out.”

Lady Warwick complied, somewhat perplexed by the cryptic phrasing of the Queen’s request, but determined to serve as best she could despite that. After all, a place as the Royal Governess was at stake.

 

 


	18. XVII: Roses III

**Chapter XVII**

“Have you heard?  The Queen drew up a new Act of Succession last night. It allows her to choose her heiress in her will, should she not have a Princess of her own blood.”

“Why should she do that? She’s young and strong. There’s no reason she wouldn’t have a healthy girl. All she needs is a husband.”

“Do you think one’s on the cards? Does he have a daughter she wants to adopt?”

“No. She wouldn’t want to deny her own blood the throne. Certainly not when she’s this young, with all probability of birthing several daughters. Besides, we’d have heard if there was a new Consort on the cards. She’s probably just worried for the Prince’s health. You know how sickly he is. This new Act won’t last long. It’s probably just a precautionary measure, in case the Prince dies before Her Majesty marries again and has the chance to provide him with a sister. No doubt the Queen will repeal it as soon as that’s no longer a worry.”

The rumours were flying in whispers all around Anne’s coronation banquet, but she paid them no heed, instead beaming winningly down upon her assembled Court. Richard, thankfully currently well enough to have withstood the journey from Ludlow unscathed and newly created Marquis of Monmouth and Montagu, sat wriggling in an ornate highchair at her side. To most present, he signified the future, heralded another generation of Howard rule, but to his mother he was anything but. To Anne, he was little more than a reminder of her horrendous first marriage; a barrier to her happiness with Henry. She’d only agreed to have him present at the banquet because it would do her image good to be seen as a doting mother who couldn’t be separated from her only child.

 _“Never mind,” she_ reminded herself, as she struggled to choke back the gall that rose up in her at the sight of her squealing son, _“With any luck, I’ll have a daughter. And if I don’t, well…The Act of Succession takes care of it. I don’t have to choose Dickon, not unless I think he’s fit for it.”_

Suddenly a hush fell over the room, drawing Anne from her musings. Baron Plantagenet rode into the hall, halting his coal-black destrier half a dozen strides from the dais.

“To the North and to the South, to the East and to the West, I hereby proclaim that Her Majesty Queen Anne of the House of Howard, is the rightful sovereign of England. Is there anyone here who wishes to challenge her claim? If so, let them speak now and I will defend her. To the death if need be.”

Upon his last words, Henry threw his silver-plated gauntlet to the floor with a clatter. The noise startled the infant Marquis, who began to cry. Without taking her eyes off the golden young Baron, the Queen took him from his highchair and handed him off to the nearest maidservant. He was borne, still grizzling, from the room, and two liveried footmen rushed forward to remove the highchair from sight. Within moments, all trace of His Highness’s presence had vanished.

No one else moved, however, and Anne breathed a sigh of relief. Not that she’d truly expected anyone to challenge her right to the throne, but it was still nice to have the moment of possibility over with. She made a quick gesture to her herald, who stepped forward.

“Lord Plantagenet, it is Her Majesty’s pleasure on this, her coronation day, the sixth of January 1510, to create thee, Lord Henry Plantagenet, Baron of Blackheath and Chelsea, the Marquis of Southampton.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from the watching crowd. From where he sat on his horse, Henry’s mouth dropped open in shock. Despite herself, Anne chuckled. Rising, she descended the steps of the dais, beribboned parchment in her outstretched hand.

“The patent of your nobility, My Lord Marquis,” she announced, offering it to him. He took it automatically, then vaulted off his horse to take her hand. He intended to sink to his knees in gratitude, but she forestalled him. Retrieving his letters patent and handing them to a liveried servant, she cried, “Play a galliard!” and led him out on to the floor before he had a chance to thank her.

He was her chosen partner for nearly every dance that night and, the moment she could, she drew him into a sheltered alcove for some privacy.

“You’re Marquis of Southampton. I’ve named your younger sister Mary a Lady of the Bedchamber, your elder sister remains my Ambassadress to Flanders, and Richard is to leave for Monmouth tomorrow morning. You’ll not have to play the father to John’s son if you don’t want to. Instead, I’ll send for Bessie to come to Court. I shall treat her as I would my own daughter. I’ve chosen her Lady Governess already and if I want to, I could even name her my heiress. And all for you. What more can I do to prove to you that I want you for my husband? That I’ll accept no other man as my Consort?” she whispered breathlessly. Henry staggered, overwhelmed by the speed and ferocity of her generosity.

Anne watched him anxiously as he struggled to process her words, waiting with bated breath for his response.

“Nothing,” he choked at last, “Nothing. You’ve already proved it a thousand times over. I will sit at your side and be your Consort and do it gladly. I am the happiest man in all of Christendom to be so honoured.”

Then he caught her in his arms and kissed her so fiercely that both their heads began to swim from lack of oxygen.

* * *

Of course, since Anne was still officially in mourning for her mother, she couldn’t have a full state wedding with Henry the way she had done with John all those years ago, but neither of them cared. When the day came, a month after she’d been crowned, Anne was attended by the Four Graces and Henry by his childhood friends: his cousin, William Plantagenet, Anthony Knivert and Thomas Fitzherbert. The bride and groom were dressed in matching crimson velvet studded with emeralds, which, while it was nowhere near as fine as the dress Anne had worn to her first wedding, symbolised both passion and fidelity in a way that her purple gown had not.

Anyway, the smile she wore as she took Henry’s hand and spoke her vows under the sharp eyes of her private chaplain, Martha Ferrers, was worth an Empress’s ransom, especially to those who had seen her through the horrors of her first marriage.

“She’s happy,” Eliza breathed to Sybil as they followed their newly-married mistress out of the chapel into the weak February sunshine, “For the first time since before we went to Ludlow, she is really and truly happy.”

Sybil beamed back at her, “I know. And doesn’t she deserve it?”

High, pealing laughter caught their attention. Several paces ahead of them, Henry had swept Anne off her feet and was twirling her around, both of them laughing at a private joke. A sprig of holly gleamed darkly at Anne’s temple and she traced it with a finger as Henry set her back on her feet.

“Bold words, my love. You’d better intend to live up to them.”

“Oh, I will,” Henry swore, “As the holly groweth green and never changeth hue, so shall I forever be unto my lady true.”

His words had a melodious ring to them and Anne blushed at them, before playfully waving him to his knees and holding out her hand.

“Give me a branch or something.”

Meg was quick to obey, while the others exchanged puzzled looks. Anne tapped Henry lightly on both shoulders, eyes dancing. “Arise, Sir Loyal Heart.”

There was no seriousness in her tone, but nonetheless, Susan couldn’t help exchanging a look with Sybil and Eliza. Anne’s first husband had also been intended to be her devoted Knight. The Spanish had sung his praises and sworn he would be. How hollow those solemn oaths had turned out to be. It was only to be hoped that the Marquis of Southampton’s promises were made of truer coin than those of the Prince of Castile.

* * *

Anne was almost half an hour late to the Council meeting scheduled for a few days after she had married Henry. The Ladies of her Council were pacing restlessly, confused and irritable. There was so much to discuss. How could their young Queen be ignoring them so? Sixteen or not, she had a duty to her country. How could she be squandering so much precious time?

Suddenly, there was a burst of girlish laughter outside the council chamber. The women raised their heads only half-curiously but then the doors swung open and the Queen skidded in breathlessly, hand in hand with the Marquis of Southampton. The older women gaped, even the seasoned courtiers among them unable to hide their shock and disapproval. The late Queen Elizabeth would never have forgotten herself like this!

For her part, as she became aware of the thinly veiled disapproval emanating from the older members of her Council, Anne had to fight the colour that rushed to her cheeks.

“Good afternoon, Ladies.”

Composing herself, she sailed to the head of the room, Henry at her side. She sat down, gesturing to him to take the other carved chair – the Consort’s chair – at her side.

There were scandalised glances exchanged around the room. Henry met them equably, saying nothing, but smirking and sliding his hand over Anne’s possessively.

Unable to keep silent any longer, the Council looked to Lady Pembroke to intervene, knowing that, as the only member of the Council present who had both served the Queen when she was only Princess of Wales and was loyal to the late Queen’s memory, of all of them, she was most likely to know what to do. Lady Pembroke didn’t resist the urgent glances of her fellow servants of the crown, but instead cleared her throat.

But when she spoke, it was not to Anne, but to Henry.

“Forgive me, Lord Southampton, but this is a meeting of the Privy Council. Our business is sensitive and ought not to be shared with outsiders.”

Her tone was coolly polite, but the implication was clear. Recognising it, Henry dipped his head. Anne spoke before he could.

“Your caution is commendable, Lady Pembroke, but no business is so secretive that even the Consort of England should be kept in the dark, surely?”

Utter silence reigned at her words. A dozen jaws hit the floor. Struggling to hide a smile, for fear it might be seen as gloating, Anne spread her free hand on the table. An emerald the size of a duck’s egg and surrounded by rose pearls glittered on her finger.

“Madam…!!”

“Your Majesty!”

“You cannot marry Lord Southampton!”

“I’m afraid I already have.” Anne cut through the roar of protest, her voice as smooth and cold as a sheet of ice, “We wed last week. I kept the ceremony small, out of deference to my late Lady Mother, but I can assure you that there are no grounds for another annulment.”

This last was said through gritted teeth, hoping no one would catch her in a lie. In fact, Anne had yet to banish her demons enough to allow herself to consummate her marriage to Henry. Fortunately for her, however, the ladies of the Council were too flabbergasted to even consider the possibility that she might not be telling them the full truth.

“But Madam – we need alliances!”

“I am well aware of that. But do I not have a son? And now the chance of even more children in the cradle? Would you not agree, ladies, that any move which increases my chances of securing the Succession with a _healthy_ Princess of Wales can only be to England’s benefit?”

The stress laid upon the word healthy did its work. Checked in their tracks by the subtly clear reminder of how frail the Prince truly was, the Council hesitated. Anne raised an eyebrow, waiting for the last mutters of discontent to die away, even if only temporarily, before playing her trump card.

“Every one of you here today knows how reluctantly I wed the Prince of Castile. Indeed, many of you considered His Highness an unsuitable spouse for me from the start and resisted our marriage as best you could. I am grateful for that resistance, believe me. But sadly, our efforts were futile, and I was the one who bore the greatest burden because we could not manage to alter my late mother’s decision. Would you not all therefore agree, ladies, that I have done my marital duty to England already? After seven years of the Castilian yoke, do I not deserve to wed a man I can truly trust to help me shoulder the burden of ruling? I ask you now, not as a Queen, but as a girl in need of guidance, if I have wed as my mother bid me once, and am now of age, do I not have the right to choose my second husband for myself?”

Anne’s gaze was a mixture of pleading and steel as her dark eyes flashed around the Council chamber, piercing each lady in turn. Despite themselves, some women found themselves muttering grudging consent, as they considered anew just how much their young sovereign had truly borne. It was fortunate, a few even thought to themselves, that Her Majesty had agreed to marry at all. Marriage to a man as odious as the Spanish Prince might well have turned her off the sacred institution altogether, and then what would they have done in regards to the Succession?

Sensing she had her Council right where she wanted them, Anne placed her other hand over Henry’s, tightening the way they held each other, and raised her voice a fraction, “If I have the right to choose, then, with your blessing, I choose the Marquis of Southampton to be my husband. You will kindly oblige me by coming forward and swearing allegiance to him as the Consort of England.”

As she finished, Anne subtly glanced at both Sybil and her father. Already primed, they knew what she wanted of them. Simultaneously, they rose and came to the head of the table, kneeling before Anne and Henry. In perfect unison, they swore everlasting loyalty to Henry. In voices that did not once falter, they vowed to love, honour and respect him as her Consort; to always protect his name and reputation and to accept no other man’s claim to his new position. Oaths over, they kissed both his hand and Anne’s, crossed themselves, and rose.

Where the Duchess of Suffolk and the Duke of Ormonde had led, no other Councillor dared refuse to follow. One by one, they knelt and pledged their fealty to their new Consort.

* * *

The cannons blasted off Castle Hill and the bells began to ring. James counted the shots. Half a dozen. Half a dozen rather than a dozen. A boy rather than a girl.

He spread his hands ruefully. It should have been for him to order the cannon blasts, not Lady Lennox. But no doubt this was another of her insults veiled as respect, to let all of Scotland know that the Duchess of Orkney had failed in this, her first attempt to secure the Succession with a Duchess of Rothesay.

Resolving to speak to his presumptuous Secretary later, he called for his horse and swung into the saddle, galloping off in the direction of Falkland Palace. It would be a hard day’s ride, especially with having to race the short days of February, but it would be worth it to hold his son in his arms.

* * *

The bedchamber was blazing with candles when James arrived and quiet other than the baby’s contented mewling as, sated by his wet-nurse’s milk, he nuzzled at his mother’s breast in a reflex action. James paused in the doorway, admiring the moment. Mary looked happier than he’d ever seen her, propped up cradling their firstborn child like that.

“Congratulations, sweetheart,” he smiled, crossing the room to bed and press his lips to her temple, “You’ve done well.”

Mary looked up at him and for once, her eyes weren’t shadowed with hurt, but clear and joyful.

“I thought we might call him Alexander, for he kicks and yells as lustily as any warrior.”

“Alexander Stewart, Prince of Scotland. Prince Alexander of Scotland,” James tried the name out on his lips before nodding, “It’s a good name. I like it.”

Mary beamed as he praised her, then bent over the baby again, cradling his head tenderly, “He’s so beautiful. Mama will be so proud of him. I can’t wait and tell her all about him.”

James’s heart clenched. Mary’s carefree mention of her mother was like a sporran between his ribs. He really should have told her earlier. But he’d hesitated; reluctant to risk endangering the child in her womb. But now he didn’t have that excuse anymore.

“Mary. Give Alexander to his nurse. I have something to tell you. Something I should have told you a while ago. It’s about your mother.”

“Don’t you want to hold him?”

“Later. This is more important.”

Mary half-pouted at his casual dismissal of their new-born son, but something in his voice told her he was being serious. This was no time to protest. She held the swaddled Prince out reluctantly, letting one of the hovering maids scurry forward to take him.

James waved them out of the room and sat down on the bed. He reached for Mary’s hand, “I need you to promise me you’ll be brave, love. Show me some of that Howard strength of yours.”

“Why? What do you mean?” Mary’s blue eyes suddenly clouded with suspicion.

“There’s no point writing to your mother about Alexander. It would be your sister who wrote back.”

For a few terrible seconds, Mary looked utterly blank and James feared he was going to have to spell it out for her. But then the colour drained from her cheeks and he knew she had understood.

_“I’ll say this for the Howard women. They’re far from slow-witted.”_

That was all he had time to think before Mary had hurled herself at him, ignoring her own pain as she screeched and flailed.

“No! NO! Mama’s not dead! She’s not! You’re lying! Lying!”

“I wish I was. I’m so sorry.”

But Mary was beyond platitudes. Her keening screams brought her ladies running, Lady Guilford at their head. James disentangled himself from his thrashing wife and rose to let her take over, grateful to be freed from the duty of having to try to soothe the latest of Mary’s storms, even though this one was of his own making.

“The Duchess has just received some distressing news, Lady Guilford. I should be grateful if you would calm her. And please, desist from suggesting you will go back to England. Your duty lies here in Scotland now.”

“Sire,” Lady Guilford curtsied, then bent over Mary, clucking, as the latter wailed wordlessly, betraying how young she still was in her childish refusal to admit the cause of her distress.

James sighed and let himself out of the room, cursing as he realised the doors had been left open, meaning Mary’s distress had been plain for all to see.

And they weren’t slow in commenting either. Hamish Douglas, James’s childhood friend, who had been keeping guard on the young Duchess during her confinement, joined him as he left her rooms.

“Her Grace was never truly taught to hide her emotions, it seems.”

“Now, Hamish. That’s unkind. Her Grace has both birthed a child and found out her mother is dead. It is hardly surprising she is somewhat distressed. I’ll have no more talk like that, thank you.”

Even as he defended his wife, however, James couldn’t help glancing back at the door of her rooms. Nor could he stop the disloyal thought that popped into his head.

_“It’s such a pity I didn’t have the job of telling Anne of her mother’s death rather than Mary. She’d never have reacted so badly. She’ll make a far better Queen than Mary ever would. She’s far less spoilt and more independent.”_

 

 


	19. XVIII: Roses IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm going away at the end of the month, this one is to tide you over during my holiday... Gifted to SilverTonguedSlytherin1, by the way, as a thank you for all our brainstorming and your lovely comments over the past few days!

**Chapter XVIII**

Mistress Bowen, Prince Richard’s nurse was just coaxing her thirteen-month-old charge awake from his nap when a carriage rolled into the courtyard of Shrewsbury Castle below her. Idly curious, she glanced out of the window, scooping His Highness close to her body as she did so. A bright-haired little girl sprang from the carriage as she watched. The little girl was beaming even as she shivered in the late January cold. Before long, she was hustled inside out of Mistress Bowen’s sight.

“Someone’s come to stay tonight, Your Highness,” she murmured, patting Richard’s head lightly, “Shall we go down and see who it is?”

He grumbled slightly, as he often did when he wasn’t quite awake, but offered no real protest as she settled him more comfortably in her arms and carried him downstairs.  She paused a few steps from the bottom, surprised to see Master Paston, one of the junior men at arms from Ludlow, stamping his feet in the hall and speaking in low voices to the Countess of Shrewsbury as the Talbot maids bustled around him.

“Master Paston? What brings you to Shrewsbury tonight?”

“Oh! Prince Richard. Mistress Bowen!” John Paston bowed hastily, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here too. Forgive me, we had no intention of barging in on you or the Talbots like this, but the weather’s turning nasty and I didn’t want to keep Mistress Sinclair out in it if I could help it.”

“Of course not. I saw you come in from our rooms. It’s no weather for a child to be travelling in. If need be, you can share our rooms for the night, though I warn you we’ll be setting off for Monmouth in the morning.”

“Thank you,” John answered, even as Lady Shrewsbury demurred, “That won’t be necessary. I’ll have the maids set up a room immediately, if you’ll only warm the child till then, Mistress.”

“Of course,” Mistress Bowen nodded, and John turned to the Countess, “Weather permitting, we’ll not impose on you more than a night, My Lady. We’ve been ordered to make for London with all haste.”

The Countess inclined her head, “Nevertheless, it is an honour to house another member of the Queen’s intimate household, however briefly. Mistress Sinclair is very welcome here, as are you, Master Paston.”

John smiled in thanks and then turned to the little girl who hid shyly behind his doublet.

“Mistress Elizabeth, come and meet the Prince Richard and his nurse, Mistress Bowen and Lady Shrewsbury.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Bessie dipped her knee politely, then returned to shrinking behind her escort. Mistress Bowen shifted Richard in her arms and crouched down to the little girl’s level.

“You look frozen, Mistress Elizabeth. Would a cup of hot milk help, do you think? We might even be able to find some of last summer’s honeycomb to melt into it, if you like.”

Bessie hesitated, but she wasn’t by nature a fearful child, so it wasn’t long before she nodded and held out her hand trustingly, “Yes please.”

Mistress Bowen smiled, straightened and took the child’s hand, letting Richard down to toddle ahead of them as he began to wake fully and wriggle. The Prince had just begun to walk and he was justly proud of his new independence.

“Come on up to the nursery then, and let’s see what we can find. I hear you’re going to London. Aren’t you a lucky girl to be going on such a long trip? Are you visiting anyone there?”

“I’m going to live with my uncle Henry. He’s a very important man, you know. He’s the Mar’is of Sout’amptun,” Bessie looked up at Mistress Bowen, wide-eyed and innocently proud of having remembered her uncle’s complex new title which was so hard to say.

Mistress Bowen’s heart sank and her hand clenched involuntarily as the final pieces fell into place. So this was Mistress Elizabeth Sinclair. Mistress Elizabeth Sinclair, the Queen’s new niece and ward. Her long-time pet.

Mistress Bowen had long since known of how the little Scottish-Welsh girl had charmed the then Princess of Wales, of course. Who in Ludlow had not? But the Princess had had the decency to keep from rubbing the child’s existence in the face of Richard’s household and the two had never met. And, Mistress Bowen suddenly found, knowing of the girl’s existence and being confronted with a lively, cheerful child in the flesh were two very different things. A shameful wave of resentment welled up in her and it was all she could do to keep her voice light as she ushered Bessie ahead of her up the stairs and bent to help Richard, who was tiring quickly of the clambering.

“He is, isn’t he? You must be very proud of him. And I’m sure you must be looking forward to living with him again.”

It wasn’t fair, she thought bitterly. That engaging little girl was on her way to London to live the life of a virtual Princess, while her own charge, the Queen’s only legitimate child, was being shunted off to the provinces. What had Mistress Elizabeth ever done to deserve her good fortune? And what had poor Richard ever done to earn his mother’s hatred like this?  Oh, no one could say Anne Howard had stinted on the provision she had made for her son, exactly. He was titled. He had a sizeable household; was granted all the honour due to him as the Prince of England. But what good would that do him without his mother? What good would all the honour in the world do, if his mother continued to blow more cold than hot, didn’t seem to love him as she should? God only knew the Queen had never been a doting mother, for all she’d pretended to be. And now she’d pushed Richard aside, under the guise of honouring him as her heir, so that nothing would stand in the way of her playing happy families with her new paramour and the indulged child trotting merrily in front of her.

“How dare she?” Mistress Bowen hissed, unable to stop herself, “How dare she abandon her own son like this?”

As if he knew she was angry on his behalf, Richard suddenly tugged impatiently on her skirts.

“Mine!” he declared, “Bo mine!”

In her heart, Mistress Bowen knew that Richard’s words were only coincidence. He’d been learning them recently and took great pleasure in declaring his possession of everything and everyone around him just because he could. Normally, she tried to stop him when it wasn’t appropriate, knowing the Queen would hate to see him grow up spoilt. But in that moment, she couldn’t have cared less. Faced with the presence of the girl Her Majesty insisted on treating as her own, she couldn’t have cared less whether she spoilt the Prince or not. Goodness only knew his mother never would.

“Yes, Your Highness,” she choked, crouching down to catch him to her and cuddle him, “I am your Bo. I am your Bo and I always will be.”

* * *

Anne had ordered Bessie to brought to meet her and Henry in the girl’s new rooms through the back stairs. It galled her to hide the child away like this; she had wanted to bring her to Court with all the pomp that befitted a Queen’s niece and ward, but her father, ever the voice of reason, had counselled her against it.

_“Elizabeth will be tired and overwhelmed by all the changes that have surrounded her recently. With the best will in the world, children can be unpredictable under those circumstances. Don’t subject her to meeting you in public on top of all that. Take her into your arms in private as you always have. Let her know nothing has changed between you just because you are now Queen and she is niece to the most powerful man in England.”_

She had allowed herself to be persuaded, yielding to her father’s good sense as she so often did, and so now she and Henry awaited Bessie in the rooms that were to be hers, hand in hand and talking whimsically of the future.

“We’ll have a dozen girls, each as beautiful as her mother,” Henry declared. Anne chuckled, carding the fingers of her free hand through his red-gold hair, “I’d be content with two or three. And I wouldn’t mind a son or two either. One to go into the army, to defend his sister to the death if she ever needs him to and one to help her secure a foreign alliance.”

“Your wish is my command,” Henry promised, leaning over to kiss her and snaking his arm around her waist, “I say we name our first daughter for her mother.”

Anne chuckled again and shook her head lightly, but she had no time to form a verbal reply, for a knock at the door interrupted them.

“Mistress Sinclair to to see you, Madam. Your Highness.”

They sprang apart and Henry spun to the door, opening his arms as Bessie entered the room, round-eyed at the grandeur of her new surroundings. Ludlow was lovely, but it was nothing compared to the splendour of the newly-refurbished Sheen.

“Bessie. Come here, _cariad_.”

“Uncle Henry!” The little girl’s face lit up and she dashed into his embrace, any sense of protocol forgotten.

“Well, isn’t this nice? To be together again. And I do believe you’ve grown, young lady. You’ll be too big for me to spin around soon.”

“Don’t be silly, Uncle Henry. Of course I won’t. I saw you spin Aunt Mary around when she visited,” Bessie’s eyes were bright and she was laughing. Anne watched indulgently as Henry flushed at being caught out in his lie.

“Oh, you did, did you? Blast! You’re too sharp for your own good, you are.”

Cupping her cheek, Henry spun Bessie in his arms so that she faced Anne, “Say hello to the Queen, _cariad.”_

“Oh, I think Aunt Anne will do, at least when we’re alone, don’t you, Bessie?” Anne reached out and took Bessie into her own arms, gratified to see the little girl was happy to come to her, kissing her gladly and nestling back into her hold in a way Richard had never done, “Was your journey all right?”

“Yes, My – Aunt Anne. We had to hide in Shrewberry from a storm, but the rest was nice.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” Anne murmured, stifling a laugh at the way the little girl mangled Shrewsbury, “Why don’t you tell me more about that?”

Bessie was only too happy to do so and the three of them sat chattering and laughing, for a few more minutes. Anne was about to suggest they show Bessie around the rooms when she suddenly realised that the journey had worn the child out and she was all but asleep in her arms, lulled by the warmth of the fire they sat beside. Anne glanced at Henry, “Someone’s tired. Would you call Lady Warwick to see her into bed, darling?”

He nodded, rising. Going to the door, he opened it a fraction and signed to Lady Warwick to come in.

“Here’s your new charge, Lady Warwick. She’s almost asleep, so perhaps it’s best if you just take her to bed and we leave the exploration of her new rooms till the morning, hmm?”

Lady Warwick nodded, careful to keep her disapproval hidden behind a face as blank as scraped parchment. Did Her Majesty and His Grace truly know as little of children as that? Thrusting her, a complete stranger, on to a very tired little girl was a recipe for disaster. Still, she resolved to make the best of things, so, curtsying to the Queen, she crouched and took the child by the hand, smiling gently as the little eyes flickered open.

“Hello, Mistress Elizabeth, I’m Lady Warwick, your new governess. Do you think we might be able to find you a more comfortable bed than the one you’re currently sitting on if you come with me?”

She held out her hand. Bessie took it sleepily, thinking it was Ruthie who was taking her to bed and let herself be encouraged to kiss Henry and Anne goodnight and led away.

Halfway across the room, however, she balked. “You’re not Ruthie. Where’s Ruthie? Ruthie always puts me to bed. I want Ruthie! Ruthie!” In seconds, her placid sleepiness had given way to fretful tears as the stress of the journey and the realisation that her beloved nursemaid wasn’t with her crashed over her. Henry exchanged a glance with Lady Warwick, but let her deal with it. After all, Ruthie wasn’t there. She’d been left behind at Chelsea the night before so that Bessie could be handed over to her new governess without any fuss when she arrived at Court. He’d thought the woman would have explained that to Bessie, but apparently not.

“Now, Mistress Elizabeth,” Lady Warwick started, bending down with a coaxing smile on her lips, but Bessie was having none of it.

“No! I want Ruthie!”

Wrenching herself out of Lady Warwick’s hold, she whirled round and ran, sobbing, to fling herself against Henry’s legs.

“Make her go away! I don’t want her, I want Ruthie!”

Anne froze, colour draining from her cheeks, as Bessie wailed into Henry. Her heart had plummeted the moment her niece had begun to make a fuss, knowing that, as ever, she would be useless in the face of the child’s tears. She simply didn’t possess the magic one seemed to need to soothe crying children. In fact, not since her own sister Mary had left for Scotland had she ever been able to soothe anyone. Ideally, she would have bolted. Yet her Howard pride kept her rooted to the spot. She’d sworn to Henry she’d raise this girl as her own, and by God, she’d meant it. And she wouldn’t do it the way her mother had raised her either, demanding unfair standards of perfection.

Awkwardly, she slipped to her knees, patting Bessie’s bright hair, “Don’t be silly. You’re too big for Ruthie now. You need a proper governess who can teach you to be a great Lady. You do want to be a lady, don’t you?”

Bessie gave a contemptuous sniff and Anne looked up at Henry, silently beseeching him for help. Instead of crouching down, he picked Bessie up, holding her snugly in his arms as he looked her in the eye.

“Aunt Anne’s right, _cariad_. You do need a governess. But maybe we were silly to try to introduce you to her tonight. I don’t see why, since it’s your first night in a new home, we can’t see you into bed ourselves. Then you can meet Lady Warwick in the morning, when you’re not so tired. You’ll like her then, you’ll see. She’s very nice, honest. What do you say to that, hmm? Does that sound like a good idea?”

Bessie sniffled for a little longer, but, comforted by the familiar feel of her uncle’s arms around her, she quietened. She thought about what he’d said to her and then bobbed her head, “Yes please, Uncle Henry.”

“Come on then,” He bore her into the next room and Anne, drawn as if by a magnet, followed, remembering infrequent, treasured occasions when her father had soothed her own bedtime tears and seen her into bed himself.

She hovered, unsure whether she should really be there as Henry drew back the sheets for Bessie and stirred up the fire to warm the room. Noticing her hesitation, Henry resolved to do something about it.

He turned to Bessie jovially, “Well, what are you waiting for? Hop in!”

“Uncle Henry! I can’t go to bed like this! I need to change into my nightshift!!” Bessie cried indignantly.

“Really? I think that dress is perfectly fine for sleeping in. You’re just being silly.”

“No! You’re being silly, Uncle Henry! I always change before I go to bed. Everyone does!”

“I don’t believe you. I always sleep in my clothes,” Henry pulled a face and Bessie giggled.

“Aunt Anne will believe me!”

“Really? You think so, do you? Well, why don’t you ask her? Maybe if she thinks you’re right, she’ll help you change.”

Bessie skipped over to Anne, tears forgotten in her uncle’s boisterous silliness.

“Aunt Anne? Uncle Henry’s being silly. He doesn’t believe I need to get changed for bed. Will you help me, please?”

She caught at Anne’s hand and Anne laughed despite herself, arching an eyebrow, “Oh he’s being silly, is he? Well, come here then. Let’s see what we can do.”

Anne knew full well Henry hadn’t forgotten Bessie would need to change. He’d just pretended to, both to cheer Bessie up and to find a way to weave her into the domestic scene as well. In that moment, she thought she’d never loved him so much.

Taking Bessie by the shoulders, she swung her around and undid the ribbons down her back with deft fingers, “There you are, love,” she smiled, sliding the gown off Bessie’s shoulders and replacing it with a linen chemise, which Henry handed her with a sheepish smile, before loosening the little girl’s plait and running her fingers through the unruly copper locks, “That will be more comfortable.”

“Thank you! See, Uncle Henry, I was right!” Bessie beamed.

“So you were, _cariad_ , so you were,” Henry chuckled. Bessie beamed in triumph, slipped her arms around Anne’s neck for a moment and allowed her to kiss her forehead before bounding over to the four-poster bed that awaited her. She slid beneath the covers without any further prompting. With surprising tenderness, Henry drew the blankets up around the little girl, saw her settled and then kissed her.

“Goodnight, Bessie. We’ll show you around the palace and introduce you to Lady Warwick in the morning, all right?”

“Yes, Uncle Henry,” Bessie breathed sleepily, smiling angelically up at him.

Turning his back on her, he slipped his arm around Anne’s waist. Anne leaned into him as they left the room.

“You’re good with her,” she whispered, “Are you trying to prove a point to me?”

“Perhaps,” Henry smirked, layering his voice with unmistakeable lust.

To his horror, rather than giggling and melting into him the way all the Richmond and Ludlow maids he had ever bedded before had done, Anne stiffened at the sound of his desire.

Remembering in an instant what kind of a marriage she had just escaped, he bit down on his own impatience and softened his hold on her.

“Do you trust me?” he murmured, removing her hood and tucking her hair behind her ear so that he could nibble the top of it playfully.

“With my life,” Anne surprised herself with the vehemence of her reply.

“Then trust me to teach you that this doesn’t have to be painful.”

They never made it to either of their apartments that night. An empty room somewhere en route sufficed.

 

 


	20. XIX: Roses V

"And so then I taught Her Grace what it truly meant to be a woman. You mark my words; she'll never look for anything more in a man again. I'll fill the nursery with girls and the whole of England will sing my praises as the most beloved Prince Consort the country has ever had. As I should be, for how can any foreign Prince ever hope to know this beautiful land the way a true Englishman does? How can they be expected to love her and defend her against her enemies as truly and fiercely as she deserves?"

Henry's voice was loud and his hand unsteady as he poured more wine in to both his own cup and those of his friends, "And when I have succeeded where the Prince of Castile failed, Her Grace will give me whatever I desire. I'll make you all Earls and the richest landowners in England to boot. Anne and I shall create a brand-new England and you shall be at the centre of it."

There was a slight murmur of surprise among the other men at the table at that. Everyone knew that no man was ever granted a title of his own unless he was royal by birth like the Prince Richard or about to marry into the royal family, as the Duke of Ormonde and Henry himself had done. Anthony Knivert and Thomas Fitzherbert exchanged glances behind Henry's back. Either their friend had more influence over the young Queen than they had ever thought possible; than the rest of the country put together, or he had had too much to drink and it was affecting his ability to think clearly. Judging by his unusual lack of coordination, they were prepared to lay money on the latter.

Indeed, looking at him, they wondered whether he'd actually remember this conversation in the morning. There was a good chance he wouldn't.

Some of their companions, however had far fewer qualms about the new Prince Consort's words. They were either drunk enough to believe Henry's boasts, or young and naïve enough to believe that, if a man could rise as high as Henry Plantagenet, there was nothing he could not do. And so they leaned forward eagerly, eyes shining with avarice at the thought of what their new connections could do for them, even as they tried to hide it behind a mask of careless nonchalance.

"I shall be Admiral of the English fleet, shan't I, Harry?" William Plantagenet, Henry's younger cousin and closest friend, stretched lazily, confident in his own good looks and fortune.

Henry spread a hand expansively, "Everyone know that, however skilled they may be in diplomacy, women are, in truth, too soft-hearted for war. The post and a glittering career in the navy is yours if you want it, little cousin."

"And I shall be named to the post of Lieutenant of Ireland ahead of my cousin Margaret, as is my birthright?" Ralph Beaufort, only child of the Countess of Westmorland, wanted reassurance that, although the junior Warwick branch of the powerful northern family had taken everything else that was his by right, they wouldn't get that too. Henry nodded, "You need only say the word."

Then he glanced at Anthony and Thomas, somehow aware of the fact that they were less enamoured of his plans than William and Ralph even through his inebriation, and wanting to make sure they knew he was planning to be generous to them too, "Don't worry," he slurred, "I'll make sure an heiress or two comes your way. Perhaps the Scales girl? Or the Ratcliffe heiress?"

Unable to resist that particular lure, Tony smirked and raised his tumbler, hand shaking so that wine splattered liberally over the table.

"To His Highness the Prince Consort, the maker of all our fortunes!"

Henry smiled benevolently at his words, lost in golden daydreams of what it would be like the day his eldest daughter was born.

* * *

Margaret was due back from Flanders again not long after Henry and Anne had finally consummated their marriage. Henry was well aware of this and only too keen to lord it over his older sister. He wanted to do it, first, in retaliation for her scepticism as to whether or not he'd be able to win the Queen for his own, having rejected her first advances and second to repay her for the countless times she had dominated the Plantagenet nursery when they were children. For she had been every inch the domineering older sister, secure in the knowledge that she was the family's golden girl and as such, could not be punished in the same way that Henry, Mary and Arthur could. Henry had always resented his parents and tutors' favouritism and now the aggrieved child in him looked forward to turning the tables on his insufferable older sister.

As such, when she greeted him with a smile and an outstretched hand, "Brother. How well you look. Your new role suits you," he frowned at her.

"Is that how our Lady Mother taught you to greet a Prince, Lady March? I think not."

Margaret flinched. She'd heard her brother angry plenty of times, but never so cold. Yet her pride refused to consider standing on formality with a man she still remembered as her whining younger brother. She forced a chuckle, "Come now, Henry. I am your older sister."

"And I am your Prince."

"There's no need for formality between siblings, surely?"

Henry said nothing, simply turned away from her as their younger sister, Mary, entered the room and swept down into a beaming curtsy.

"Your Grace," she laughed, "Are we having a family council no one told me about?"

"No," Henry replied, raising her up and embracing her, "But I will say this. It is good to see that at least one of us understands that if we do not act as if we believe we are royal, then no one else will believe it of us either."

The barb in his seemingly jovial comment was unmistakeable. Gall rose in Margaret's throat, but she forced her knees to bend in response to it, "Forgive me, my Lord. I forgot to whom I spoke."

Henry ignored her bitter tone, simply waited a few seconds before waving her up as though nothing had happened, "No matter. I'm sure you will not forget again, will you?" he said placidly.

Not unaware of the tension between her elder siblings, Mary decided it was time to change the subject.

"I've just come from visiting little Bessie. She's visibly proud of her new rooms and so she should be."

Henry snorted indulgently, "She's a true Plantagenet, isn't she? She knows her worth and she won't have anyone deny it."

"Not even Lady Warwick," Mary laughed, "I never thought I'd see the day a Beauchamp would be dressing a Plantagenet and waiting on them hand and foot."

"I know. Lady Warwick's supposed to be her governess, but I swear Bessie can coax her into anything."

Henry's voice was tinged with pride. Margaret, however, blanched with shock.

"Bessie? Arthur's daughter? You haven't brought her to Court? Tell me you haven't?!"

"Arthur left her in my charge in his will, as did Katherine. I don't see what business it is of yours how I decide to raise her," Henry snapped, easily riled, as he always was by Margaret.

"If the Countess of Warwick is acting as her governess, then you're insisting on raising her as befits a Princess. That's practically shouting the fact that the Queen doesn't have a daughter from the rooftops! My God, Henry, have you no tact?!"

" _Anne_ appointed Lady Warwick to her current position, as it happens," Henry said silkily, "Unlike some, she is not a woman to turn her back on a motherless child, whether she loves its father or not."

Margaret recoiled as though the words were a physical blow. Arthur had been her favourite sibling and the insinuation that she had wilfully ignored his little girl's plight upon his death, when in fact, she'd have loved nothing more than to raise her as her own, cut deep.

"That's not fair, brother and you know it is not. I was out of the country."

"And I was a penniless younger son, left to make his own way in the world. But you know what they say. Where there's a will, there's a way."

Margaret flushed, but before she could retort, the great doors were being flung open and the Queen was coming in, breathless.

"What's this? My new sisters both here at Court again and no one told me? Margaret, dear, welcome home!"

Anne was laughing at her own pomposity as she embraced first Margaret and then Mary, "Oh! Henry has told me so much about you," she went on, turning back to Margaret, "I've never had an older sister before, so I must say I'm quite looking forward to the experience. You must be sure and tell me if I get anything wrong. I've not had an older sibling at all, really, not since I was nine."

Despite herself, Margaret found herself warming to this excited young woman. She pulled back from Anne's embrace…and only then realised that this new side to the Queen was simply a persona, one she could switch off in the blink of an eye if she so wished.

Oh, she'd play the lovesick girl and assuage both Henry's pride and their clearly mutual love for generous gallantry, sure enough, but only as long as it suited her. What would happen if it no longer suited her? Margaret couldn't help but shiver at the thought, even as Anne slid an affectionate arm around her waist and led her to a couch. Did Henry know what a temperamental woman he'd married?

* * *

"My Lady? May I introduce my brother Charles to you?"

Sybil slid her arm through her older brother's almost protectively as Anne turned to face them. Her fears weren't entirely unfounded. Anne could be a little bit awkward when it came to meeting people's siblings, particularly their brothers. In the wrong mood, they reminded her of what she was missing with her own brother George, what with him in Spain and her in England. A nostalgic mood was one of those dangerous moods. And Anne had been lost in nostalgia more and more recently. Sybil suspected she knew why, but didn't want to pry. Anne would confirm her thoughts, or not, when she was ready.

Fortunately, this wasn't one of those times, and Anne's smile widened as she put down the papers she'd been holding and saw Charles at Sybil's side.

"Ah, yes. Lord Brandon. You're the one who ran off at fourteen to become a mercenary, aren't you?"

"I prefer to think of it as attempting to make my own way in the world, Madam," Charles remarked, arching an eyebrow as he sank to one knee. There was something decidedly rakish in his air and Anne's other ladies gasped, even as their mistress laughed and held out her hand for Charles to kiss.

"Do you indeed? Well, no one can say you haven't inherited your share of the Brandon courage, that's for sure. And? Do you think you succeeded?"

"Well, I'm alive, aren't I, My Lady?" Again, Charles cocked an eyebrow and Anne laughed.

"So you are, Lord Brandon. So you are. And now home to stay, I hope?"

"If Your Majesty and Sybil will have me, yes. I find I tire of fighting European wars and would rather pledge my sword to the Queen I was born to serve."

"Very pretty, and the sentiment, too, pleases me. We shall have to see what we can do for you."

Anne smiled, then waved them away, only to call, "Sybil?" a moment later.

"Yes, Madam?"

"Meg can help me retire tonight. Enjoy your time with your brother. I know only too well how bitterly short such precious time can be."

There was a wistful lilt to Anne's voice and Sybil hesitated at the sound of it, "Your Grace…"

"I believe I dismissed you, Lady Suffolk," Anne countered softly, "Go."

And Sybil had no choice but to obey.

* * *

The news of the handsome new addition to the English Court spread like wildfire and, by the time Henry came to join Anne in her rooms that night, he felt as though he'd heard of nothing other than Charles Brandon all day.

Proud as he was, he didn't like the sound of the admiring whispers some of the younger ladies of the Court were discussing Brandon in. He was their Prince Consort; surely he ought to be the one they fawned over? Not that he'd min England. He ought to be able to command every woman's attention if he wanted. Not some upstart who was little more than a mercenary.

So when he entered Anne's bedchamber as Meg was brushing her hair out and the first words she greeted him with were, "Have you heard? Sybil's brother's come to Court," he couldn't help but be peeved.

"I've heard," he bit out, "And? Did he make the same impression on you as he seems to have made on every other woman in England?"

"I admit, he seems a perfect gallant. I can see why he'd break some hearts," Anne murmured, eyes closed, as she tipped her head back under Meg's ministrations. Then she noted the acid in Henry's voice and her eyes flew open.

"Are you jealous? Of Lord Brandon? But, _mon Coeur,_ whatever for?"

Dismissing Meg with a wave of her hand, she rose and came across to him, reaching up to caress his cheek, "I married you, not him. Whatever reason could you possibly have to be jealous of him?"

"I hear of nothing else. Even in my own wife's chambers, he is the topic chosen to greet me as I walk in the door," Henry knew he sounded petty, sulking like this, but he couldn't help himself.

Anne shrugged carelessly, "Then we shan't speak of him again. I only received him to please Sybil really. Are you aware, by the way, that Bessie is the sweetest little girl?

"What's she done to earn that title?" Henry laughed, taken aback by the non-sequitur. Anne ignored him, however, in favour of musing aloud.

"I only hope our little Princess doesn't mind having a rival in the nursery. She may find she has one before long."

For several moments, Henry didn't take in her words. Then, as Anne turned towards him so that she was enveloped in his arms, which automatically opened to admit her, they sank in.

"Are you - Anne, _breila,_ are you saying?

" _Yndw,"_ Anne breathed, retreating into Welsh, as the two of them occasionally did when they were alone and in a particularly tender mood with one another.

Henry's response was to whoop with joy and sweep her off her feet into his arms.


	21. XX: Roses VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm feeling generous and it's my birthday tomorrow, so I was thinking comments might be a nice way to help me celebrate... so have another chapter of Lionesses! :)

**Chapter XX**

Five months down the line, however, Henry was no longer quite as enamoured with the idea of his impending fatherhood. He had always assumed that women blossomed during pregnancy; that they became softer, more generous, as the child swelled within them. But, he discovered to his horror, Anne did not. Indeed, in his eyes, she did the exact opposite. As far as he was concerned, she became a demanding harridan, one he dreaded spending time with and yet could not avoid.

It began with the fact that she refused to sleep alone or in the company of one of her maids. She would insist on his spending the night with her. This, in itself, he would not mind, had she not also insisted on his waiting on her hand and foot at all hours. And then there was the nausea. Countless mornings, Anne would wake retching, and Henry who hated nothing more than inglorious bodily fluids, would have to rub her back and croon soothing nonsense into her hair as she did so.

But on reflection, the morning sickness wasn’t the worst of it. For as long as she was suffering that, Henry could at least console himself with the thought that Anne was at least as miserable as he was, if not more so. But once that passed and her demands, rather than lessening, became not only more frequent but also more demeaning, Henry’s bitterness increased. It was made all the worse by the fact that Anne, nerves already on the raw, refused to hear even the slightest murmur of discontent. Even a sleepy grumble in the early hours of the morning could send her flying into a passion.

* * *

“Henry, fetch me another pillow,” Anne groaned, tossing irritably beside him. Sleepily, Henry reached out to pass her the one beside him, but she shoved it away angrily.

“Not one of these! The lace on them scratches and anyway, they’re not stuffed properly. Get me one of the ones from the divan over there. They’re better padded.”

Sighing inwardly, Henry rolled over and sat up, narrowly avoiding a frustrated kick in the process.

“Does your back ache, _breila?_ ” he murmured, trying his hardest to sound sympathetic. Not an easy task when it was three in the morning and he’d hardly had a wink of sleep. It seemed to him as if, every time he was close to dropping off, Anne would start awake, calling for something.

Anne didn’t dignify his question with a response, only huffed and glared pointedly until he swung himself out of bed and fetched the required article, which was, to all intents and purposes, identical to the one she’d rejected so fiercely not half a minute previously. He bent over her solicitously and arranged it exactly to her liking in the small of her back, which took some time, as she kept writhing and fussing that it wasn’t quite right, much like an over-tired child who didn’t want to take a nap might. At last she was quiet and Henry straightened up again.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to move back to my own rooms, Anne?” he asked tentatively.

Anne’s eyes, which had just been drifting shut, snapped open. She looked up at him with a gaze of poison. Poison laced with a healthy dose of suspicion.

“What? And have you miss out on a moment of this? I think not! By the Virgin, you got me into this position, Your Highness. You can damn well help me see it through.”

“No, no! I didn’t mean I wanted to escape!” Henry hastened to placate her, sliding back on to the bed and taking her into his arms, “You know I live to serve you. I was only thinking of your comfort. You might find it easier to sleep if you had more room to stretch out. If we weren’t sharing a bed.”

“I want you here.”

Anne’s tone brooked no argument. She rolled out of his arms, “Since you’re awake, get me some of those damsons from the kitchen. The Welsh ones stewed in mustard. I’m hungry.”

“Madam…” Henry retreated into formality to hide the way his stomach churned at the mere mention of her current craving, “Is this truly wise? It’s so late and Your Grace has eaten precious little else for weeks. Surely a more soothing food might help you sleep better?”

“Are you disobeying me, Lord Southampton?” Anne’s voice turned instantly to ice, “I warn you, I am tired of husbands who disobey me.”

At her words, Henry blanched and all but ran to do her bidding. This wasn’t the first time Anne had likened him to the Prince of Castile. It usually heralded a rage so great that he feared for their child’s safety. And that was paramount, for only a girl could secure his family’s rise irrevocably.

Anne had shut her eyes again, but her ears were pricked. At the sound of his hurried footsteps, she called after him.

“So, you’ve learnt to curb your tongue. Good. Go. Your daughter is hungry.”

Her voice still held bite, but it was much softer than before and anyway, her words lightened Henry’s step. His daughter.

“ _That’s who I’m doing this for. My daughter,”_ he reminded himself. For everything would be worth it once he’d sired a healthy daughter. Every lost minute of sleep; every demeaning errand. It would all be worth it once he held his Princess in his arms. All of it.

* * *

“My brother tires of playing the Queen’s nursemaid,” Mary Plantagenet whispered to Elizabeth Paston as she saw Henry enter Anne’s rooms with the step of a man who looked to be going to the gallows rather than the cocksure springing stride he had been using just six short months ago.

Unfortunately for Mary, Susan was sewing not six feet away and her sharp ears caught the whisper.

“What did you just say, Lady Mary? Would you care to repeat that to me?”

Mary flushed, “No, Lady Lincoln,” she said hastily, but Susan shot her a stern look, “I think you do. Or should I ask Mistress Paston what you said?”

There was a note of warning in Susan’s voice and Henry’s youngest sister knew better than to challenge one of the Queen’s favourite ladies, even if she was said Queen’s sister by marriage.

“I said my brother tires of playing the Queen’s nursemaid, Lady Lincoln,” she muttered reluctantly, “He thought being Prince Consort would be love and games all day long. He didn’t consider the long-term consequences.”

Mary didn’t hesitate to add this last. Henry might be her favourite sibling, but she wasn’t blind to his faults. Not now, not the way she’d been when they were children. She knew his pride was dangerous, even if it was partly deserved. Upsetting the Queen by balking at having to dance attendance upon her when she was in such a delicate condition…Well, that was something Mary was only too happy to distance herself from if she could. Poking fun at her brother and making it clear that she didn’t share his feelings was one way to do that.

“I see. And you, Lady Mary? Do you regret the fact that your first year as the Queen’s sister is not a merrier one?”

“Oh no, Lady Lincoln,” Mary lied glibly, “I understand the importance of securing the Succession. Of course the Queen must take care now that she finds herself with child. The birth of a healthy Princess of Wales is paramount and it is an outcome I pray for daily.”

Susan shot Mary a searching glance, but having no true reason to find fault with the girl’s words, let the matter be.

“You might try reminding your brother that Her Grace never asked for her first husband during her pregnancy with His Highness Prince Richard,” she said at last, “Compared to the Prince of Castile, he is in a particularly fortunate position as regards our mistress’s trust. He would do well not to jeopardise that.”

Mary nodded, “I’ll remember, Lady Lincoln.”

Susan inclined her head in acceptance of the young girl’s words, then softened as an amusing thought quirked at her lips.

“If your brother already balks at Her Grace’s attempts to involve him with their unborn child, how much worse is he going to find it once she is confined and can barely let those she trusts out of her sight for fear of dying of boredom?”

Despite herself, Mary caught Susan’s eye and smirked at her words.

“Perhaps it is as well we have a few months before he has to find that out. I shan’t tell him. That would simply ruin a perfectly wonderful surprise.”

* * *

Henry drew rein in the tiltyard, exhaling, just as his horse was blowing from the exercise. Unable to stop himself, he shot a bitter glance up at the crenelated towers of Windsor above him. It was one of England’s prettiest castles, but he found it hard to enjoy it now, even in the glorious autumn colours of mid-October. Part of the reason Windsor was so wonderful was that it was set among some of the country’s finest hunting grounds. And he wasn’t allowed to enjoy them.

Anne was confined to her apartments, mere weeks away from birthing their daughter and miserable because of it. That would have been bad enough, but she seemed determined to curb his enjoyment of these golden autumn days as well. He wasn’t allowed to stir from either her apartments or his own without telling her why; without asking her permission. And gaining her consent for anything in the outdoors was no easy task. Riding in the tiltyard was just about possible, but he wasn’t allowed to stray any further afield. As she had done in the first months, she wanted him at her side, or at least within easy calling distance, at all hours.

Oh, he had found her dependency charming at first, even endearing. After all, what man didn’t like to play a handsome knight born to serve his lady from time to time? But by now, the novelty had long since worn off and he was beginning to chafe under her seemingly pointless restrictions. He didn’t see how he could bear them much longer. Yet there were still three weeks, at least, before the babe would greet the world. Or so the midwives said.

“Your Highness? Shall we ride again?” Tom FitzHerbert asked, neatly catching the new practice lance a stable hand threw him as he spoke.

Jolted out of his musings, Henry nodded and swung his horse around. The beast had recovered somewhat while he’d sat lost in thought and now Henry took a moment to admire the raw power that rippled beneath him. A fine sorrel hunter this one. He’d been Anne’s gift to him just after they married, before she’d found herself with child and decided that, if she couldn’t ride, then she’d clamp down on his leisure hours as well.

Why she’d even forbidden him from riding out with his own cousins the other day. His own cousins! Even if Anne was afraid he’d be unfaithful to her, which he wouldn’t, then she need not worry about him bedding his own cousins. Half of them were children, and even those that were grown, well, they were his kin, for heavens’ sake! He might not always be reverent in his speech, but he was more conscious of the laws of affinity than to try to bed his own first cousins!

As if Tom could read his mind, he remarked “It’s a pity Her Grace wouldn’t let you ride out with us the other day. Leander’s too marvellous a horse to be wasted in the tiltyard. He’s begging for a good run.”

“Aye, don’t I know it,” Henry said shortly, “But who am I to defy a royal command? Especially when the Queen is so near her time?”

He was careful to keep his voice neutral, but Tom knew him well enough to be able to read his displeasure in the set of his shoulders and the line of his jaw.

And even the best will in the world couldn’t keep a sigh from escaping Henry's lips when Anna Lovell came scurrying out of the palace in search of him.

“Your Highness? Her Majesty is asking for you.”

“Very well, Mistress Lovell. I’ll come at once.”

Signing to the nearest stable hand to take his reins, he swung himself from the saddle, “My apologies, Tom, but our rematch will have to wait.”

“Of course, Your Grace. Duty calls,” Tom half-bowed in acknowledgement and Henry turned to go inside. He groaned inwardly when he realised that Anna Lovell had lingered, looking positively gleeful. This did not bode well. Mistress Lovell was a thoroughly poisonous creature who delighted in others’ misfortune.

“Yes, Mistress Lovell?” he snapped.

“You’d better hurry, My Lord. Her Grace is in a _foul_ mood,” she chirruped.

Henry didn’t respond. Though he did quicken his step as much as he could without appearing to be hurrying. Perhaps if he was quick enough, he’d manage to avoid Anne’s wrath this time.

It was a forlorn hope. No sooner had he entered the room in which Anne was sitting than she hurled a pillow at his head.

“Where have you been? I sent for you ages ago!”

Biting his tongue on a retort – a pillow he could dodge, but there were also silver candlesticks easily within her reach – Henry bowed silently, while Anne raked him up and down with piercing eyes.

“You’ve been riding,” she accused, “I thought I forbade you to go riding? I need you close.”

Anne hated how peevish she sounded. She really did. But she was just so much more miserable with this pregnancy than she’d ever been with Richard. She was easily twice as bloated, she was uncomfortably warm, despite it being so late in the year, she was bored to tears by being stuck in these rooms and oh! how her back ached! She didn’t ever remember being in this much pain before Richard was born.

And there were so few people she dared vent her misery on. Everyone else expected her to play the gracious Queen, because apparently that’s what her mother had always done when she’d been with child. Anne was beginning to hate those words.

The child turned just then and she couldn’t stifle a groan. Henry’s face softened and he came over to her, wrapping an arm around her and resting his palm on the bulge of her stomach.

“Are you being naughty and not letting Mama rest, hmm? Is that why she’s so irritable today? You know, Princesses are supposed to be gracious, not naughty. Would a hug from Papa help, do you think?”

Despite herself, Anne smiled as Henry talked to their unborn daughter and she shifted up on the couch to make room for him. He settled himself behind her, arm around her waist to support her. He used his free arm to rub her back as hard as he knew she liked it. After a few moments, she exhaled and leaned back into him.

“It will all be worth it in the end,” he whispered, not sure which of them he was trying to convince. Anne turned her head to peer ruefully up at him.

“I’ve not made the past eight months easy on you, have I? I am sorry, you know. I just wanted you to feel connected to our little girl, that’s all. I never asked John for anything, back when I was carrying Richard.”

“She’s ours. How could I not be?” he soothed, determinedly ignoring the reference to her first husband, as he so often did, and patting her ebony hair where it reached her hips, for here, in the privacy of her chambers, she often flouted convention and wore it loose, claiming the weight of it piled beneath a hood gave her headaches.

“When she’s born, when our little Matilda’s born, we’ll have a family portrait painted,” Anne breathed, “You and me either side of her cradle and Bessie and Richard holding hands. We’ll show England her golden future.”

Henry nodded, desperate to maintain the fragile peace of the moment. As such, he barely dared move or breathe, much less protest Anne’s choice of a name for their daughter. Moments like these had happened so rarely in recent months.

It was at times like this, he reflected, that he remembered why he loved Anne. She was so loving and generous, even in spite of her fiery spirit. He bent his head, intending to kiss her tenderly.

And then she stifled a most unbecoming wail and squirmed, ducking away from him.

 _“Breila?_ ”

“I’m sorry, _cariad_ ,” she replied, smile tight, “This isn’t a good moment to get swept up in passion. Would you mind?”

She held out a hand for his arm and he offered it automatically. It was only when she hurried in the direction of her close stool, dragging him with her and crying out for her ladies’ aid as she went, that the penny dropped. For the thousandth time in recent days, Henry had to bite back a surge of revulsion. Why did pregnancy have to involve so many bodily fluids for God’s Sake?!

 

 


	22. XXI: Roses VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't expect this speed of updates very often, but I've got a large buffer and decided I'd kept you all guessing as to the baby's sex for long enough ;)

"Her Majesty has given birth to a healthy baby boy."

The silence in Henry's rooms was deafening. In the face of it, Lady Ursula Catesby's encouraging smile first wavered, then dropped altogether.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," she said softly, "I know how much we all hoped and prayed for a Princess and Your Graces most of all, of course."

Henry's cheeks had drained of colour at her words, but at the pity in her tone, he shook himself. He'd staked everything on being able to father a girl at the first time of trying, unlike the Prince of Castile. Thus, this was a significant blow to his prestige. The Court would be waiting to see how he reacted. If he faltered; if he allowed a lowly maidservant to pity him, then he was done for. The wolverines would pounce on his weakness in a second.

Anyway, what did it matter that their firstborn was a boy? He'd fathered a child on Anne within a month of wedding and bedding her, and wasn't that more than the Prince of Castile had ever done? Surely all the omens boded well for there being a Princess in the cradle within the year?

With that in mind, he mustered a jovial smile for Ursula and tossed her a gold half-angel.

"Thank you, Mistress Catesby. Your words gladden my heart. Do not lament my son's sex, for I am sure he will be lustiest, bonniest boy England has ever seen. I will go and call on the Queen and our son immediately."

"My Lord," Ursula curtsied and swept from the room. No sooner had she gone than Henry's bravado drained away. His shoulders slumped and he looked up at his cousin with anguished eyes.

"I promised her a girl, Will," he said hollowly, "I promised her a girl. I was supposed to be walking into those rooms the proud, triumphant father of a Princess of Wales. But now…"

He didn't finish his sentence and Will didn't say anything either. There was nothing to be said. Their golden Princess had been born a Prince and now they had to make the best of it.

* * *

Anne was sitting up in bed, cradling their new son, when Henry reached her rooms. Heart thudding, he hesitated on the threshold. He'd imagined this moment a thousand times, but never quite like this. In all his imaginings, the baby in Anne's arms had been a girl. Now it was a boy. Thrown by the change in expected circumstances, he was far from sure of his welcome.

"My Lady Queen?" he whispered, so quietly he was hardly sure Anne would hear him.

Indeed, she hadn't, and, had their son not begun to fuss at that exact moment, she might never have known he was there.

But as it was, as the baby started snuffling, she glanced up, sheer terror in her eyes, before her gaze alighted upon him and changed to one of delight.

"Henry, my love! Come and hold your son!" she sang, extending her arms to him.

Too relieved at the warmth of her greeting to consider anything else, Henry did as he was bid, plucking the babe from her hold and settling him in his own. The boy whimpered for a moment, then settled in his father's confident hold. He kicked slightly, then blinked. His eyes were pure liquid aquamarine. Father and son looked at each other and Henry was smitten.

"He's beautiful, darling!" he gasped, "I'm sure England's never seen a finer boy."

"He feels heavier than Richard. The midwives tell me that's a good sign," Anne commented, lying because she thought it was expected of her to compare her sons. In truth, she had no recollection of what Richard had weighed as a new-born. She hadn't even held him until he was a week old.

Shaking her head to clear away unpleasant memories, she forced a laugh, "Listen to me. Comparing him to his older brother before I've even told you his name. He's to be George, for my brother. It seemed fitting."

"I'm sure he'll vanquish many a dragon in his sister's service one day," Henry laughed back, bouncing the boy lightly in his arms, to the midwives' horrified gasps.

"Your Highness, take care! Your son is but an hour old!"

"And already, like his namesake the good Saint George, he fears nothing," Henry retorted, as George merely gurgled at him merrily.

Anne watched indulgently for a few moments, before waving a hand, "Take Prince George to the nursery and settle him in. I wish to talk to his father."

"Yes, Madam," In an instant, the bevy of clucking ladies was gone, the baby with them. Henry watched them out of sight, then turned to Anne, a question already on his lips, "Prince George?"

She shrugged, "I'll not have our son considered any less than Richard simply because he is the second born. He is a product of love and will be treated as such, I promise you."

To that, Henry could do nothing other than lean down to kiss her. Anne was flouting convention to have their son – her second – titled as a Prince in the same way as his older brother. Prince was a style usually accorded to the eldest son alone. If George was to be a Prince, like Richard, then Anne was already making moves to combat the rumours that would no doubt soon be flying; that she'd been wrong to succumb to passion and take him as her second Consort. She was daring anyone to suggest that she might be regretting their admittedly hasty marriage.

Gratitude swelled in Henry's chest at that thought, and he deepened the kiss so that her lips were bound to bruise the next day.

"Thank you," he breathed against her skin, "Thank you."

"It's nothing," Anne murmured back, "Or at least, it's little enough compared to how happy you've made me."

Flickers of unease stirred in Henry, for no apparent reason, and he whispered back, "We will have a girl, I swear. I promise you, we'll give England a Princess yet."

"I know we will. London would have to melt into the Thames before I doubted you," Anne replied, running her fingers through his tousled hair.

At that moment, their eyes met and the look they shared was so intense that even fresh out of childbirth as she was, Anne had to pull away to stifle the thrill of desire that suddenly coursed through her veins.

"You'd better get back on that horse of yours," she said breathlessly, "I intend to hold a joust to mark George's baptism at the weekend and I won't have his own father disgracing us."

Henry couldn't help the way his jaw dropped open.

"The joust goes ahead? Even though…"

Anne nodded. "It goes ahead. And the portrait too, as soon as I'm well enough. I said we'd show England her future and I meant it. Nothing changes from what we've planned. Nothing."

Her voice was too firm to brook any argument. Not that Henry intended to argue. He fell to his knees in thanks.

"Thank you, my love," he said hoarsely, "Thank you!"

* * *

Something was different this morning, Bessie noticed, as Lady Warwick shook her awake lightly. Something was different. But she didn't realise what it was until Lady Warwick had finished dressing her for Mass and had begun to plait up her hair. She hadn't been reminded to pray that Aunt Anne had a baby girl at Mass that morning.

"Lady Warwick?"

"Yes, Mistress Elizabeth?"

"Has Aunt Anne had the baby?" Bessie peered over her shoulder at her governess, who stood behind her, pinning her hood into place.

"Hold still," Lady Warwick chided softly, turning her back round again, "But to answer your question, yes. Her Majesty has had a healthy boy. She's called him George. He's still very small, so you have to be very careful with him, but should you like to meet him?"

"George?" Bessie scrunched her nose up in confusion, "But I thought I was to have a cousin called Matilda?"

Lady Warwick sighed. She might have known Elizabeth would remember that. She really was too sharp considering she was only five.

"Everyone hoped you would, Mistress Elizabeth," she explained gently, "Everyone prayed that the Queen would have a baby girl and make this country safe, but that's not what happened. God decided to send Their Graces a Prince instead. Now, would you like to meet your new cousin?"

Bessie thought for a moment, then nodded, "Yes, please."

"Come along then," Lady Warwick took the little girl by the hand and led her into the next room, where her youngest charge lay gurgling in a cradle in front of the fire, watched over protectively by his wet nurse.

Signing to the other woman not to interfere, Lady Warwick let Bessie lean over the cradle and greet her new cousin. Bessie hesitated for a few seconds, then poked at George's nose where it peeped out from beneath a mound of blankets. Lady Warwick caught her breath – what had she just said about being careful! – but George didn't protest his cousin's rough handling and so she was tactful enough to let the matter be.

"You look nice," Bessie pronounced at last, "In fact, you're so nice I've decided to forgive you for being naughty and not being a girl. Didn't you know Aunt Anne and Uncle Henry wanted a girl? It wasn't very nice of you to be a boy. But don't worry. I'll love you anyway. I have to. That's what big cousins do."

"Oh? What do big cousins do?" Henry interrupted, unable to keep silent any longer. He'd been leaning against the door watching Bessie's enchanting monologue for several moments by then, utterly bewitched by the sight of her leaning over George's cradle. What a lovely sight she made – and what a wonderful older sister figure.

Lady Warwick and George's nurse started and curtsied as they realised he was behind them, "Your Highness!" Bessie, on the other hand, spun round at his voice.

"Uncle Henry!" she squealed, running over to him and leaping up into his arms before Lady Warwick could protest. She snaked his arms around his neck, but then remembered she ought to be angry at him for listening at doors and pouted.

"You shouldn't listen at doors, it's rude!"

Henry was careful to look suitably chastened as he responded, "I'm sorry, you're right. I shouldn't have been. But since I was, why don't you tell me? What do big cousins do?"

"Why, they look after the little ones, of course. They love them and look after them!"

"I see. And you intend to do that with George, do you?"

Bessie bobbed her head eagerly and Henry chuckled, "Good. I'm sure you'll be a great help to Lady Warwick. Now, do you think we should go and find Aunt Anne. She has something important she wants to tell you."

Bessie cocked her head to one side, considering, "Can George come too? I wouldn't want him to miss out on anything just because he's a baby."

"That's very kind of you, Bessie. Of course he can come, if you're willing to help me carry him."

Lady Warwick started forward in protest. Elizabeth was just a child. How could she know how to be careful with a babe not yet two days old? But then the Prince Consort looked at her and she fell back before the determined glint in his eye.

Henry had his reasons for wanting Bessie to carry George in to Anne. Despite himself, and despite Anne's overly generous treatment of the boy, he couldn't help but feel that Anne wasn't quite as enamoured of George as he might have hoped. He feared that she was disappointed in the fact that he hadn't been able to give her a girl, the way he'd promised. But one thing he did know. She'd never refused Bessie anything, not so long as she'd known the child. So surely, if Bessie wanted George to be part of their family, Anne would play along, if only to humour her? And if she play-acted affection for George for Bessie's sake, she'd come to feel it in truth soon enough. He knew she would. How could she not, when George was so strong and healthy? So unlike the fractious, sickly Richard?

Thus, carefully arranging George in Bessie's arms, and watching her like a hawk to satisfy Lady Warwick, he let her lead their little procession out of the room to go and visit her aunt.

Anne greeted them cheerfully, "Have you all come to visit me so I don't get lonely and bored? How very kind of you… and this can't be little George? He's far bigger than I remember from last night!"

Bessie giggled, "Don't be silly, Aunt Anne! He's tiny!"

"But if he's George and you're calling me Aunt Anne, then you must be Bessie and you look far too grown up to be my Bessie. Are you really my best girl Bessie?"

Anne feigned shock and Bessie shrieked with laughter and nodded, "I am, honest!"

"Well, I suppose, if you say you are, you must be. But my word. If you can already carry George that well, you won't have a problem with the chrism for his head on Sunday, will you?"

Bessie looked puzzled and Henry glanced over her head to Anne, "You want her to carry the chrism?"

"Of course. And your sister Mary can be Godmother alongside my brother, who I will name Godfather. George is your son too. I won't cut your family out of his upbringing."

If there was a slightly bitter undertone to Anne's voice, then both she and Henry ignored it, content to focus on the future rather than dwell on the past. Henry bent down to Bessie, "What your aunt's asking you to do is a very important job. Do you think you can manage it?"

Bessie nodded eagerly, "Of course I can! I'm a big girl now!"

"Good. If you do it well enough, there might even be a reward in it for you," Anne ruffled her hair before letting her nestle against her side as she took George from her arms.

"Hello, my little one," she crooned, feigning delight for Bessie's sake, "Have you been getting to know your big cousin a bit better? And have you come to say hello to Mama? What a fine boy you are! We'll just have to wait for your brother to come to Court and for Mama to be well enough and then we'll have your picture painted to show all of Europe what a handsome boy you are, won't we?"

"You're going to paint George?" Bessie asked excitedly. Anne smiled, "Well, not me personally, darling, no, but Mistress Hilliard will. She's going to paint all of us. Together, as a family."

If Bessie had been excited before, now she was positively glowing. "I get to be in the picture too? Truly?"

"I promise. You're the closest thing George will ever have to an older sister. How could we possibly leave you out?"

She snaked her free arm around Bessie's waist, heart warming to the little girl's answering beam in a way it simply didn't to the infant in her arms.

And now that she had them together, she could begin to fathom why. Bessie was so charming, so lively and George so dependent. True, he didn't seem to be quite as uncomfortable around her as Richard, or as vocal as his older brother, which was a relief, but the sheer sense of responsibility that settled on her shoulders when he was in her arms made her frantic. She was on the verge of panic, only her royal training keeping her from going over the edge. And yet Henry, who could usually read her so well, didn't seem to notice anything was even the slightest bit wrong as she came to stand at her shoulder, gazing proudly down at their son.

In that moment, Anne knew her gut instinct was right. George would have to be in his cradle for the portrait. She couldn't bear the strain of having to hold him throughout the sittings.

* * *

"If you would just arrange yourself next to the Prince in his cradle, Madam. And then if you could stand behind her with a hand on her shoulder, Your Grace. That's perfect. Now, if Prince Richard and Mistress Elizabeth could come and stand on Your Majesty's other side, holding hands, we should have a charming tableau," Mistress Jane Hilliard, Court Painter to the Howards, kept her voice gentle and polite, only too aware of the importance of this commission. It wouldn't do to startle the younger subjects or put anyone's backs up by being too brusque.

Eager to demonstrate what a big, helpful girl she was, Bessie skipped to her place, standing very straight and still, the way Uncle Henry had told her she had to. She held out her hand, waiting for Richard to come and take it.

Richard, however, was having none of it. Already unsettled by the number of unfamiliar people around him and the pungent odours of the paints, being told he had to hold hands with a tall girl with hair like fire than he didn't know was the final straw. He began to squirm, screw up his face and wail. He tottered over to the woman with black hair, the one Bo always told him was his Mama. He stretched his arms up, begging her to hold him, expecting to be picked up and fussed over; gazed at softly with a look that gave him a warm, cosy feeling. That's what usually happened when he was feeling sad.

The face that stared down at him this time, however, was tight. She didn't quite twitch her skirts out of his hold, but she looked like she wanted to.

"Now, Dickon. There's no need to make all this fuss. You're a big boy. Mama's brave little gerfalcon. You don't need Mama to hold you. Go and do what Mistress Hilliard tells you, there's a good lad."

The ice in her tone was non-existent to any but an upset toddler. Richard plopped down on his plump bottom, screeching, as surely as if the woman had hit him. As he did so, he jostled the cradle, waking its occupant. Indignant, George set up his own ferocious howls.

"Now look what you've done! Is that any way for a big brother to behave?" Anne snapped, "Mistress Bowen, come and take your charge until he can be more amenable!"

So saying, she reached into the cradle, plucking George up into her arms and rocking him.

"Hush, George. Hush. It's all right. Mama's here. Mama's here. Dickon was just being a bit rough. You're safe. Shh, you're safe."

In the face of this blatant miscarriage of justice, Richard redoubled his cries. Bo came over and tried to carry him away, but he refused, thrashing in her arms. It wasn't fair! Why did George get a cuddle and not him? And why couldn't the lady see that he hadn't meant to wake George? It had been an accident! It wasn't fair!

Bo looked up at the black-haired woman, "I'm sorry, My Lady Queen. The Prince is out of sorts today. He doesn't usually cry like this."

She started bouncing him, which usually made him giggle, but today he was too caught up in how unfairly he was being treated and refused to play along. Instead, he simply screamed even louder. It wasn't fair! It wasn't!

Such was the scene that greeted Meg when she dared open the door of Anne's solar.

"What is it, Meg? I asked not to be disturbed!" Anne, patience worn thin to the point of exhaustion, snarled.

"Yes, Your Grace, I know. I'll beg your forgiveness if I must, My Lady, but this has just arrived from Hever. I believe you'll want to see it."

Meg held out a thin scroll and there was a note in her voice that told Anne not to ignore her. Handing a still wailing George off to Henry, she stood and crossed to the window, taking the missive off Meg as she did so.

A moment later, she had gone so still, it would have taken a fool not to realise something was wrong. Henry exchanged a glance with Meg, then stepped forward, free hand outstretched.

" _Breila?_ "

She spun round, but her eyes were glassy. She barely seemed to see him.

"Get me a horse," she choked.

"My Lady…" Meg began, even as Henry protested, "You're barely out of confinement, love. Are you sure riding is wise?"

Anne ignored him, focusing on the woman who had served her since childhood. When she spoke, however, it was to them both.

"My father is dying. If I don't go now, I'll never… never…"

Her voice cracked and she buried her head in her hands. Alarmed to see her so shaken, Henry moved to her, put his free arm around her. At his touch, she looked up pleadingly.

"Get me a horse," she begged.

This time, no one dared gainsay her. Meg fled for the stables and Anne rode out like the wind. Queen of England and Ireland she might be, but she was still a woman like any other. She was still a daughter. A daughter scared witless by the unexpected threat to her father's life.


	23. XXII: Roses VIII

Thomas Boleyn, Duke of Ormonde, former Prince Consort of England and Anne’s most beloved father, tossed and turned restlessly, murmuring incoherently through cracked, parched lips. Against all advice, Anne sat at his side, one hand resting on his, the other tight around a damp cloth she was running over his cheeks and forehead in a vain attempt to bring his fever down.

“Come on, Papa,” she begged, “Stay with me, please. You’ve fought this before. Do it again. I need you to live.” Her voice cracked, and she had to turn away for a moment before she could continue, voice uncharacteristically vulnerable, “I’ve only just buried Mother, I can’t lose you too.”

Tears burned in her eyes and she had to force them back. Daughter or not, she was also Queen of England and she could not afford to cry. Not here, not now.  In an attempt to keep from yielding to her despair, she deliberately injected a little levity into her voice as she went on, “After all, if you don’t live, who’s going to counsel me sensibly, rather than putting their own interests first? Who’s going to tell me what I need to hear, rather than what they think I want to hear, if you’re not there to do it?”

She paused, and then a real smile did quirk her lips in spite of everything, as a memory suddenly came into her mind unbidden.

“Do you remember the first time I bathed you like this? I was only seven. The Scots were here to discuss my marriage to James, but then Mother miscarried again and you went down with a bout of this. Just like you have on and off since you picked it up fighting in the northern marshes. Aunt Muriel and the Council wanted to end the diplomatic visit early, but I was so determined to act the woman in front of Queen Margaret. I begged her and James to stay, despite everything and we made it work. Somehow, we made it work. I was too young to attend the council meetings, of course, but I forced my way into your rooms and insisted on taking my turn at nursing you the way I’d seen Mother do it. Then, when I needed to, I’d leave, bathe, change and go and play my part of James’s hostess for as long as it was required of me. I was almost asleep on my feet by the end of the week, but it was worth it. You told me a few weeks later that when Queen Margaret wrote to thank us for the visit, she commended me for my poise under a difficult situation. You told me she’d said I’d acted with the grace of a woman twice my age and that I was bound to grow into a woman she would be proud to call her daughter. A woman she would be proud to call her son’s Queen.”

Anne hesitated, dipping the cloth back into the lavender-scented water at her side, “I’ve never forgotten that,” she said at last, “I’ve never forgotten that Queen Margaret had the grace to treat me as the woman I was pretending to be, rather than the terrified little girl I really was. I admired her so much for that. I always wished Mother would treat me like that. Give me credit for trying, at the very least.”

A note of bitterness crept into Anne’s rambling and she swallowed. Papa didn’t need to hear this. However strained her own relationship with her mother had been, she’d always respected the clearly deep and abiding affection her parents had had for one another. If these truly were Papa’s last hours – and it was looking more and more like they would be – then he didn’t need to hear her bad-mouthing her mother. She bent her head and kissed his fevered brow tenderly, fancying it a touch cooler than it had been.

“I love you, Papa,” she breathed, “So much. I always have and I always will.”

She rose, intending to fetch more lavender water from the ewer by the fire, when her father’s hand suddenly shot out and caught her wrist in a manacle made of skin and bone.

“You are that woman, Anne,” he croaked. She spun round to look at him, stunned to see his eyes lucid for the first time since her arrival thirty-six hours earlier.

“Papa…” she began, but he held up a trembling hand to silence her.

“You’re a wonderful Queen, darling. I’m so proud of you. So, so very proud. The country couldn’t be in safer hands. Promise me you’ll look after it now. Keep it safe, keep it secure.”

“Of course, Papa. Of course!”

Anne fell to her knees, clutching his hand, too emotional to truly speak. To tell her father every thought that was rushing through her head, the way she wanted to.

It was too late anyway. Fighting to remain lucid for long enough for that final speech had robbed Thomas of the last of his failing strength. Even as Anne watched, he slipped away, though he mustered the energy to offer her a last, weak smile.

“Well done, my Annabella,” he breathed, with his dying breath, “Well done.”

* * *

“The Queen hasn’t left the chapel since Lord Ormonde was laid out in there,” Margaret Shelton informed Henry and Sybil worriedly the moment the two arrived at Hever, obeying the urgent summons they had been sent.

“I’ll go to her, you need not worry. You’ll have your Queen back before long, if I have anything to say about it, Mistress Shelton,” Sybil reassured the clearly shaken young woman. A distant cousin of the Lord Ormonde and a younger daughter of the fertile Lady Anne Shelton, she’d only recently begun to earn her living by acting as the stewardess of Hever. Being expected to cope with her master’s death and an obviously grief-stricken young Queen evidently hadn’t been on her foreseen list of daily duties.

Henry protested Sybil’s pronouncement immediately, “I’ll go, Lady Suffolk, not you. Or at the least, we’ll go together.”

Sybil shook her head, “With all due respect, Your Highness, I think it would be best if I did this alone.”

“I’m her husband!”

“Yes. And I do not doubt your love for Her Grace, but Your Highness simply does not know the Queen the way I do. Believe me. Please. I know that what I’m saying is for the best.”

Henry scowled, but for all he liked to play the chivalrous knight, he knew comforting distraught young women wasn’t really his area of expertise.

“Well, all right,” he blustered, to hide how easily he’d given in, “But you must promise to fetch me immediately if I can be of any help.”

“You have my word,” Sybil vowed, before dipping into a half-curtsy and slipping away, to the private chapel off the master bedroom where Thomas Boleyn had been laid out in state. Anne knelt before his effigy, as still as marble.

And when Sybil approached and accidentally brushed against the younger woman’s shoulder, she realised she was as cold as marble too, and that despite her thick furs. She truly had been there a long time.

“Anne?” Sybil whispered softly, knowing better than to overload her friend with protocol now.

Anne didn’t respond, but when Sybil slid down to kneel beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder, she turned her face towards her and laid her head on her shoulder with a quiet exhalation, closing her eyes. The simple gesture of trust was worth more than a thousand words. They sat in silence for several long minutes, Sybil unwilling to push the younger woman unless she had to.

“He told me he was proud of me,” Anne whispered at last, “With his last breath, he told me. I’ve waited so long to hear my parents say that. So, so, long.”

With that, Anne burst into silent, heaving sobs. There was nothing Sybil could say. She could only sit and hold Anne. Hold her until her emotions were spent and she was ready to listen to counsel again.

“So, what now?” she breathed against Anne’s hair when the younger woman finally slumped, quiet and exhausted, against her.

Anne grumbled slightly in response and Sybil bent her head to hear her, at the same time as propping her up a little more, “What now?” she repeated, “Your father wouldn’t want you to ignore your duties for his sake. I know he would not. So where do we go from here?”

As she had ever done, Anne responded to the bracing challenge in Sybil’s words. She pulled herself upright, something sparking in her jet-black eyes.

“First, I go and find my husband and let him see that I’m all right. Let him play the knight in shining armour to my damsel in distress to make him feel better. Then I call Mistress Vaughan to me. Papa made me promise to keep this country safe. I’ve been far too lax about that in recent times. It’s time I did something about it.”

Sybil nodded and helped Anne up. She brushed the younger woman’s gown off and replaced her hood, “There.”

“Thank you,” Anne murmured, and they both knew she wasn’t just talking about the small ministrations. Sybil nodded again.

“You will always be Anne to me,” she breathed. No matter what happens, you will always be the girl I played with as a child and nursed when sick. No matter what. I give you my word.”

It was Anne’s turn to nod. As she had done the night she had first bedded John, she caught Sybil’s hand and held it. A look passed between them that was worth a thousand words. Then Anne turned and sailed out of the room to find her husband.

* * *

James read his Ambassadress’s missive and heaved a sigh. He had known it would come to this, one day. It was common knowledge that, however well he hid it, the Duke of Ormonde wasn’t the man he’d once been and that he suffered bouts of the quartain fever with increasing regularity. Yet he’d hoped he might have been granted a little more time before the older man was actually called to meet his Maker. Mary was still so young and she’d barely recovered from being told of her mother’s death fifteen months earlier. How could he tell her that her father had passed away too?

For a wild moment, he was tempted to burn the missive; not to say anything to Mary at all. But then his rational side reasserted itself. That wouldn’t work. And remembering how badly delaying the announcement of Elizabeth’s death had turned out, it was probably best just to tell her at once and get it over with.  “ _Besides,”_ he tried to reassure himself, “ _It isn’t as if Mary was ever particularly close to her father. With any luck, she’ll take the news of his death with more poise than she took the news of her mother’s.”_

Exhaling slowly and steeling his nerves, James made his way to Mary’s rooms. Entering, he bowed over her hand and then, without further ado, passed her the letter, “Lady Sinclair just sent me this. I think you ought to read it.”

As she did so, he sent her maids from the room so that, however she reacted this time, she would at least do so in private. Then he tried not to look at her, knowing from experience that it was almost impossible to read a letter like that with someone else’s eyes on you. He knew when she found out, though. Her strangled gasp told him that.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” he said gently, turning towards her and crossing the room, hand outstretched, “Would you like me to order Court mourning?”

He half went to put his arms around her, but stopped himself just in time. He’d never embraced her before. It would only be awkward to start at such a time as this.

At his words, Mary glanced up and nodded, but it was clear she was distracted.

“Anne plans to have Sybil act as Chief Mourner at Papa’s funeral. Sybil! It should be me. And she says nothing about my going to England at all.”

She sounded utterly nonplussed and James found himself at a loss for words. This wasn’t at all the reaction he’d envisaged.

“Why should Anne mention you going to England?” he replied at last, “You’re Duchess of Orkney now, not Gloucester. It wouldn’t be fitting for you to act as your father’s chief mourner. People would see you at the funeral and start prophesying the ruin of the House of Stewart. Anne knows that. And we both know how fond she is of Sybil. I suppose it was only to be expected that she’d ask her to act in her stead at such a time as this, since you’re not able to do it.”

“I suppose so. But Sybil’s not Papa’s daughter. Her daughter isn’t his grandchild. She can’t be allowed to have her pick of his art and books. And Papa had such a collection, even Anne won’t want it all. She must mean for me to go to England and pick out what I want, both for me and for Alexander. She must. She’s simply forgotten to put it in the letter because of her grief. That’s all right, I’ll simply write and remind her. Or perhaps Papa left us something in his will and she forgot to mention it. I’ll have to ask.”

So saying, Mary moved to pick up ink and quills and go to the window seat. If James had really been paying attention, he would have noted the hollowness of her voice, the clockwork-like aspect of her movements. He would have realised that this was her way of coping; of trying to act with the poise she knew she really should. He would have seen that, in order to keep control of herself, she was shutting out all else to focus on a single task. But he wasn’t, and so he didn’t, and the seemingly callousness of her actions shocked him to the core.

“I didn’t realise you were close enough to your father to be able to expect that he might leave you any keepsakes,” he said coldly. Mary looked up at him, face devoid of any understanding.

“I’m his daughter. Alexander is his grandson. Of course he will have left us something. It would be unbecoming if he had not.” 

James took an involuntary step back as he processed the full extent of her words.

“My God,” he hissed, “You really are nothing more than a selfish, spoilt child. You really don’t care anything for your father beyond the gifts he gives you.”

Mary’s eyes went from blank to injured in a split-second, but James wasn’t finished yet, “I knew my mother had forced me into a bad bargain when she made me marry you instead of your sister, but I didn’t realise she’d fobbed me off with a child who will never grow up. I’ll bet Anne’s glad to be free of you and your tantrums and I bet your mother was too. I wish I was. I wish I’d never married you.”

He was breathing hard by the time he’d finished. He was relieved to have the words out in the open. But he knew he had to leave before he said anything else he might regret. If nothing else, Mary would only go crying to Lady Guilford about this and then it would get back to England. And much though he somehow doubted Anne would come to her sister’s rescue, there was always that possibility. The Howard pride was legendary, after all. It was better if he didn’t risk it any further than he already had. Thus, he stormed from the room without giving Mary a chance to respond.

With him went any chance of the two of them ever having a happy marriage.

 


	24. XXIII: Roses IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I think we all need a bit of cheering up in the face of all this horrible news...

"Madam, are you sure this is wise? I realise that Your Grace is keen to make the child feel part of the family, but to name her a Duchess, and Duchess of Lancaster at that…," Lucy Vaughan's voice trailed off as the full import of what the Queen intended struck her, "The last person to bear that title was Prince Edmund de Bohun. Surely Your Majesty can see what implications people would draw from this? Especially with Your Graces entertaining the Bavarian Ambassadors too? I beg you, My Lady, do not do something so unseemly."

"Prince Edmund was Duke of both Lancaster and Ormonde," Anne pointed out, "My mother created my father Duke of Ormonde on the occasion of their marriage. I would not use that title before my father is even cold in the ground, but surely there can be no objections to my bestowing the other Duchy however I see fit, given that the title has already been split? She hesitated, thinking how best to soften the blow and then went on, "Your caution is commendable, Madam Secretary, and I recognise that you have served me well since I was but Princess of Wales, but I tire of this pointless back and forth. You will not change my mind, so draw up the patent."

"But Madam!" Even as she knew it was hopeless, Mistress Vaughan offered one final plea, desperate to stop the scandal from breaking, "At least make her a Marchioness rather than a Duchess. The Prince Richard is but a Marquis, after all. If Your Grace makes Mistress Sinclair a Duchess and sets her above His Highness, people will assume you intend to name her your heiress. Your Majesty must see that. And surely Your Grace has not yet given up hope of birthing a daughter of your own?"

"Prince Richard is a Prince before he is a Marquis. As is Prince George. Whatever title I chose to bestow upon little Mistress Sinclair, she would never outrank them, not as long as they are trueborn Princes of England. But Bessie has no rank other than that bestowed upon her by her parents' rank, and I cannot allow that to stand. Not when her uncle is my Prince Consort and has already fathered a lusty Prince."

"I fail to see what His Highness …"

"Oh, come, Mistress Vaughan! Don't play the fool with me. We both know that of His Grace's family, Mistress Elizabeth is the one dearest to his heart. It will please him greatly to see her honoured like this. More than if I were to name Lady March a Duchess, or even to give Lady Mary a title of her own. Besides, I too care for Mistress Elizabeth. She is my niece and I would see her honoured for that reason alone. I would remind you that the Lancaster title is traditionally within the sovereign's gift; to be bestowed upon a woman dear to their heart. As such, I will kindly insist that you allow me to bestow it upon Mistress Sinclair without any further protest."

"I… Madam, I… I fear Your Grace may one day think otherwise. Surely it cannot be wise to act as though Your Majesty will never be mother to a Princess of Wales. I fear that, intentionally or not, that is what Your Grace is doing. At least, between this elevation of Mistress Sinclair and the recent Act of Succession, that is the way the Court will see it."

"Enough, Mistress Vaughan! You twist my words and I will not have it!" Anne snapped, before softening, "If you fear I do not believe that I can birth a healthy girl, then let me put your mind at rest on that score. I have not yet given up hope of a daughter. But my father's death has made me realise that I cannot simply wait and rely on God's Providence. Providence helps those who help themselves, Mistress Vaughan. I must have a contingency plan, in case, God forbid, I should die without a daughter to succeed me. My pride will not allow me to see my beloved England reduced to a satellite state to another, as would doubtless happen if I left it to one of the boys. And this is the only way I can take steps to secure the succession and keep England independent without actually having a daughter of my own. Now, by the Virgin, will you please draw up the patent and let me worry about the consequences?"

Slowly, reluctantly, Lucy Vaughan did as she was bid. It seemed to take forever, but eventually, the document lay glistening on the table in front of her. Satisfied, the Queen swept from the room. Her secretary gazed after her, more worried than she cared to admit by the turn of events. She knew full well the Queen was within her rights to do what she'd just done, given the terms of the previous year's Act of Succession, but to actually see her as good as disregard her own sons' blood rights to the throne like this, and not even mention her sister and Prince Alexander of Scotland, nor Prince George's daughters… Well, it was unnerving, to say the least. It threw up uneasy questions for the future.

In that moment, Lucy Vaughan decided to pray for God to send England a Princess more fervently than she ever had before. It appeared the birth of a healthy girl might prevent more issues from arising than even she had originally thought.

* * *

Henry couldn't stop beaming. Any lingering fears he might have had about the possibility of Anne resenting his inability to father a girl on her at the first time of trying, that she might have begun to regret their admittedly rapid marriage, had been banished to the deepest, darkest parts of the New World by her recent actions.

"She's naming Bessie Duchess of Lancaster and seeking a royal match for her! Does this not prove to you beyond a shadow of a doubt, sister, that our time has come, that we are the first family in England now?" he crowed, throwing a jovial arm around Margaret's shoulders. She stiffened and drew back a few paces.

"We'd be a lot safer if you'd actually done what you were supposed to and sired a girl on her," she retorted, "I'm not comfortable with having all our hopes rest on Arthur's girl. It's all right for now, while the Queen has no daughter and is content to fuss over Bessie as though she's a little doll, but have you considered the fact that there may come a time when Her Majesty comes to resent the fact that she's honouring a child who has no connection to her by blood? If spoiling a poor orphan beyond her wildest dreams ever loses its glamourous appeal? Hmm? Have you? What happens if George doesn't have a sister to make this country safe by then? Hmm?"

Henry threw his head back, roaring with laughter, "Sourpuss!" he teased, "You're just jealous because Anne chose to honour Bessie and not you, even though, technically, you're the head of the family. Well, perhaps if you'd been a little nicer to me and a little happier to play the doting sister and aunt to all of us, as you should have been, you might have stood a chance of becoming 'Her Grace of March and Richmond.' As it is, you've got naught more than you deserve. I look forward to seeing you follow the hem of Bessie's gown."

His voice was silky with glee and Margaret recoiled at the spite in it, "You don't actually expect me to stand on ceremony with her, do you? She's a child! And my niece besides!"

"She is also the Queen's 'little doll' as you put it. How long do you think it would take someone to notice that, even as the rest of the Court acknowledged Lady Elizabeth Sinclair as the unspoken heiress presumptive to the throne of England, her own aunt did not? It would be all over England in hours, Margaret, and you know it. If we are to make anyone believe we are royalty, then we must act as though we are. And that means living surrounded by protocol. Even for little Bessie."

Henry smirked and Margaret shot him a venomous look.

"You'd better hurry up and give Her Majesty a Princess," she hissed at last, "Because if you do not, one day, your arrogance is going to be the death of us all."

* * *

Anne had ordered Lady Warwick to dress Bessie carefully on the day of her investiture and the Countess had done just that, choosing to gown the child in ivory velvet trimmed with cloth of silver. With strings of tiny seed pearls woven through her fiery hair, Bessie looked a picture of innocence and, in many ways, far too young for the great responsibility that was being settled upon her shoulders. The Court waited with bated breath as she curtsied, not once or twice, but thrice, and then sank to her knees before the dais.

Anne allowed herself a small smile at the girl's perfect manners as a herald stepped forward and proclaimed, "Mistress Elizabeth Sinclair, it is Her Majesty's sovereign pleasure, on this the 23rd day of April in the second year of her reign, Anno Domini 1511, to create thee Duchess of Lancaster."

Bessie peeped up at Anne then, wide-eyed despite trying her hardest not to be. She had been told this day would come for what felt like ages, but it still felt strange to hear it announced like that. Anne shot the little girl a reassuring smile and stepped down off the dais, an ermine-trimmed coronet in her hands.

She bent down, smoothing Bessie's hair with the flat of her hand and preparing to place the coronet on the child's head. Before she did so, however, she stooped even further and dropped a feather light kiss to the crown of Bessie's head.

"Good girl," she breathed, so that only Bessie could hear her, as she settled the coronet in its rightful place, "Good girl. You're doing so well."

Only Bessie could hear Anne's words, but all those close enough could see her actions. A murmur rippled through the crowd, even as Anne took Bessie's hands and helped her up.

"Arise, my beloved niece of Lancaster," she announced, pitching her voice both to stop Bessie hearing the murmurs and to try to counteract them by emphasising just how high Bessie stood in her favour.

Unfortunately, this only served to add fuel to the fire, especially when she then took Bessie by the hand and led her into the Banqueting Hall herself.

"You'll stay up, just this once, and dance the first set with us. In fact, how would you like to open the dancing, my Lady Lancaster? You could show us that beautiful galliard you've been practicing so hard, couldn't you?"

Her Majesty's indulgent question drifted back to those gathered in the chamber, as did Bessie's excited squeal in response. The ladies all looked at each other, shock passing in currents between them.

They weren't stupid, they'd known the Queen had made a pet of her niece by marriage before today, but still! This was positively scandalous! It was one thing to favour the child, even to give her a title, but to make her Duchess of Lancaster, with all its royal connotations…

Oh, the Queen had done well in trying to downplay the importance of today. She'd hidden the ceremony in the midst of all the other St George's Day pageantry and had been careful to honour several others as well, the most prominent being the Prince Consort's cousin William, who had become Sir William and Lord High Admiral of the Fleet, and the Duchess of Suffolk's brother Charles, who had been made Lieutenant and Constable of the Tower of London. But it had been clear from the start of the ceremony that the day was to be little Mistress Sinclair's. And with the pride the Queen clearly took in her, one might be forgiven for thinking that Her Majesty looked upon the little Duchess as a daughter.

"The Act of Succession," one of them breathed.

The same thought shot through all of their minds at once. If there was no Princess born to the Queen, then she had the right to name her own successor. Up till now, most had thought it was a way to ensure that Prince George, the healthier of her sons, would inherit ahead of his older brother if it became necessary, but now they were beginning to wonder.

As one, they turned to stare after the little Duchess of Lancaster. She couldn't possibly be being groomed to be their next Queen. Could she?

* * *

"Madam, we are honoured that so exalted a lady as yourself would think to hear our suit," The Bavarian Ambassadresses were shown into Anne's rooms with much fanfare, "We solemnly vow that Your Majesty gets more beautiful every time we lay eyes on you," they continued, kissing her hand.

Anne laughed and waved a hand carelessly, "Pretty words, ladies, pretty words. But words can mean both everything and nothing. Do you bring good news? What says your mistress to an alliance between our countries?"

"Your Grace, our Lady Mistress is honoured, but she does express surprise that you should wish so expressly for the hand of Lord Ernest. She wonders if she could instead offer you the hand of Lady Sabina for Prince Richard or else perhaps her eldest son, Lord William, if Your Majesty truly wishes to wed the little Lady Lancaster into our beautiful Bavaria."

Anne chuckled, "Trying to offer me a bigger bargaining chip so she can ask for more in exchange? Why am I not surprised? Still," she paused, "I am glad Bavaria honours its heiresses. Too few countries truly understand what a blessed gift a girl is."

Standing, she strode to the window and gazed out of it for a few seconds. She was silent as she did so and the Bavarian emissaries considered that a hopeful sign. Maybe they would be able to secure the Prince Richard for Lady Sabina after all. What a coup that would be! True, he was little more than a babe and Lady Sabina was already more than half a woman. But what did that matter in comparison to his prestige? In comparison to the standing an alliance with England would bring their country?

But then Anne turned around again and their hopes were shattered.

"I appreciate your endeavours, ladies, but I'm afraid I could not countenance marrying my son to the Lady Sabina. The age gap between His Highness and Her Ladyship is, I fear, too large to be successfully overcome. As, I believe, is the gap in Lord William and Lady Lancaster's ages. I was a child bride. I would not wish that fate upon my niece if I could help it. No, my good ladies. I'm afraid the union between our countries will be secured by Lord Ernest and Lady Lancaster or by no one at all."

Anne softened her words with a smile, "Take my message back to your gracious mistress and let me know her answer. Remember, you came to us, not vice versa."

The envoys knew a dismissal when they heard one. They left and Anne turned to the screen behind her, "Well? What do you say? Shall we have a ducal groom for Bessie?"

Henry laughed as he stepped out of hiding, "I've enough sense to know this is in Duchess Susanna's hands at the moment, not ours. Do you think she'll agree to your terms?"

"She'll come to the table," Anne replied confidently, if with a note of rancour in her voice, "The Bavarians are just pushing their luck because they know my mother could be pushed around when it came to negotiating marriages. They thought they'd get me to agree to Richard for Sabina because I'd know no better. Which I have no intention of doing."

Henry nodded, but said nothing. In truth, he was slightly bitter. When Anne had promised to look into finding a foreign match for Bessie, he'd thought she'd open talks with France or Spain, maybe Portugal or even Burgundy or Brittany. One of the major city states, anyway. Not a remote, backward, mountainous Duchy like Bavaria. And she wasn't even pressing for their eldest son. Didn't his _cariad_ deserve to be treated like a Princess – at least until she had a younger sister-cousin?

Anne saw his face darken and touched his arm, "I know you hoped for a better match for her, but you have to understand. She's not my daughter, though I love her like one. The rest of Europe doesn't see her as a Princess or even take her seriously as my heiress. Not yet, she's too new to the role and the chances that I'll have a daughter are still too high. They'd be offended if I offered them her hand."

"But -!" Henry protested. Anne cut off his tirade before it could begin.

"I'm not saying they're right to, love, but that's the way it is. That's part of the reason I pushed for Ernest. Bavaria might well find some pretext to break a betrothal between Bessie and William. But they're not going to worry so much about a younger son's bride. They'll just be pleased to have him off their hands. And at this point, all I want to do is get people thinking of Bessie as a potential royal bride. Give it a few years, when she's more established as my heiress, if that's the way things turn out, and I'm sure the offers for her hand will come flooding in. And if Bessie doesn't end up staying my heiress, well, I promise you, the moment we have a daughter, I will start working to secure her the most glittering match I possibly can. And George, too, will have a royal match."

Mollified, Henry subsided, "But what about Richard?" He asked suspiciously, "You told the Bavarians he was spoken for, yet you've said nothing about him."

"I haven't yet decided what to do about Richard," Anne admitted. "I don't want to prepare him for the throne. Not yet at any rate. He's too young for that burden," She held up a hand to stop Henry interrupting, "Believe me, love, it is a burden. Especially when you have a parent who piles the pressure on you to be perfect, because that's what they think the next in line should be, which I fear John would. That's if he could stop himself from wanting Richard to honour Spain above England, which I'm still not sure he could. And Richard would have to be twice as perfect as I was expected to be, because he's a boy and not a girl. Between you and me, I'm not sure he'd be able to cope. He doesn't strike me as that kind of boy. George seems stronger than he does, and he's several years younger. I won't put my son through the pain of not being able to meet the expectations that are placed on his shoulders. I won't. Which is partly why I didn't offer him to the Bavarians. Can you imagine how unbearable John would be if he thought there was a chance of a foreign match for his son? For all of us to deal with? No, the best thing for all concerned, but especially Richard, is for me to do what I'm doing. I've honoured him with a title, so no one can deny I think of him as my most beloved son despite the fact that my marriage to his father broke down so acrimoniously and I've given him some castles of his own. Let him be brought up in the peace of the country without the pressures of Court around him. I grew up at Court, I know what it's like. Richard wouldn't survive five minutes, not with how frail he is. Besides, giving Richard a household in the country is better for another reason too. Do you really want to have to welcome John to Court every time he wants to visit Richard?"

Henry couldn't suppress a grimace at that thought and Anne spread her hands, "Exactly. Nor do I. But I won't keep Richard from his father, either. My mother did that to me and it was one of the most painful things she could have done. I hated her for it. I won't have my firstborn hating me for the same thing. So again, establishing Richard in a household in the country is quite the best thing to do. John can visit him there whenever he likes without us having to know anything about it."

Henry chuckled despite himself, "You really are quite the stateswoman, aren't you?"

"I should hope so! If my mother had anything drilled into me by Lady Parr and the rest of my tutors, it was statescraft. Now, are you going to continue to stand there and protest things that don't need to be protested, or are you going to come here and kiss me?"

There was a note in her voice that couldn't be gainsaid, and Henry chuckled again and did as he was bid.


	25. XXIV: Roses X

The note came to John alongside a basket of spring fruits sent by the Spanish envoy, Eva de Puebla. Most of his news of Court came through her these days, for, although Anne had never explicitly banned him from Court, or from having visitors, very few people thought it worth their while to visit him when he was so clearly _persona non-grata_ with their young Queen. And there was no way John would ever consider returning to the English Court of his own volition. Not while that Welsh upstart swanned around preening and being accorded all the privileges that were John's by right. That would have been his, had that spineless Magdalene not fallen for Anne's false injured innocence and defied the Lord Almighty by sundering their marriage and pretending it had never existed.

At least, he'd thought he'd never go back to the English Court. This letter from Doňa de Puebla changed that. No sooner had he read it than he was shouting for his trunks to be packed, word sent ahead to Port Douglas and his horse to be saddled.

The Howard bitch thought she could get away with hustling Richard off to the country and setting a spoilt Scottish-Welsh chit above him, did she? He'd be damned before he'd let her! She might have succeeded in ruining his life, but by the Virgin, she wouldn't succeed in shoving Richard aside so easily. The boy might be weak and no suitable heir, but the blood of Queen Isabella of Castile ran in his veins. He deserved better than to have some backward jumped-up Countess's niece be advanced at his expense. The honour of Spain demanded that he be treated better. But Juana wouldn't do anything. Her husband had her wrapped around his little finger and he saw nothing wrong with anything his sister did, no matter how destructive her whims. And Madre was too ill to insist, drat it. No, as ever, upholding Spanish pride on these benighted shores would be down to him.

John rode out in a whirlwind of fury, determined that, for once, Anne would listen to him. For once, he'd make that spoilt brat understand that the world didn't revolve around her.

He couldn't wait. She wouldn't know what had hit her.

* * *

"How dare you?!"

He doors to Anne's Presence Chamber crashed open. Her head snapped up. John stood there, every inch of him trembling with fury.

Henry leapt to his feet, "How dare _you_ speak to the Queen like that?!"

Anne rolled her eyes, touched by his protectiveness, but determined not to give John the satisfaction of knowing he had got under her skin, "Don't, love. He's not worth it. Much though I appreciate your defence of my honour. It's nice to know _one_ of my husbands knows what promising to be my knight gallant truly entails."

Only then did she truly look at John, face carefully cool and shuttered, "Prince John. Forgive me, but I don't remember inviting you to Court. What have we done to deserve this pleasure?"

"You're going to force Richard into a monastery! You're never going to let him have the throne!" John spat, deliberately exaggerating the rumours in an attempt to catch Anne off guard. It was a desperate ploy, but it might have worked, had she not known there was not a grain of truth in at least half of what he said. She scoffed in amusement as he ranted.

"I don't know where you heard _that._ I have no intention of sending Dickon into the Church. I hadn't even considered it. It's an excellent idea, though. Thank you. I shall bear it in mind if he ever shows an aptitude for learning. And if he ever has a sister. You don't honestly think I'd dedicate my oldest son to the Lord before the Succession was secured, do you? A woman like your mother might have been confident enough in His favour to do so, but I prefer not to leave such things entirely to the winds of chance."

John blustered for a moment, but recovered quickly enough. After all, it wasn't as if that was the only tack he could use against Anne, "How do I know what you would and wouldn't do? You've sent him from Court, whilst you fawn over that Scottish-Welsh brat. You've never treated him with the respect he deserves. He's a grandson of Isabella of Castile! He deserves better than to be shunted off to the country and forgotten about!"

"I've honoured Dickon with a household of his own, where he can be brought up as befits a Prince rather than the political pawn you and your family would make him," Anne rejoined calmly, letting John's rage wash over her like a wave breaks against a shore. She knew his throwing a tantrum over nothing would only work in her favour. She waited for him to tire himself and then looked up, her upper lip curling slightly as she saw the state he had worked himself into, "Moreover, I was assured by the physicians that a life in the country, away from the damp of Ludlow or the congestion of the city would be good for Dickon's health. Surely, as his father, you must agree that any measures we can take to safeguard our precious son's health must be followed without delay? Third, I have honoured my beloved niece as she deserves. So you needn't worry about the royal nursery being sullied by her presence. I assure you, Lady Lancaster is a daughter the Plantagenets can be justly proud of. If the daughters I have with her uncle are half as gifted as their cousin, then I will rest assured that the future of England is safe in the hands of girls the country can be proud of. Now, if you've quite finished, _Your Grace,_ I'll call my Chamberlain to find a room for you. Your journey has doubtless tired you. Otherwise I'm sure you would never be so ungentlemanly as to shout at me in the way you just have."

"No, I have not finished!" John spat, his anger redoubling in the face of her calm, "I can't deny you have perfectly plausible reasons for everything you're doing. No doubt you've even managed to deceive yourself into thinking you're a wonderful mother who has nothing but Richard's best interests at heart. Well, I know better. You could barely even bring yourself to hold him, back in Ludlow! He screamed himself sick the moment you walked into the nursery, because he knew you hated him. Have you told your precious Lord Southampton that? Have you told him why? Have you told him that you couldn't bear to be around Richard because you're a spoilt brat who can't accept the fact that your firstborn son has a better bloodline than you do? Have you told him that you hate your son because you've always had an irrational hatred of me and so, like your weak-willed mother, you know no better than to tar an innocent child with the same brush and deny me even visiting rights? That you'd do the same to him and _Lord_ George in a heartbeat, should your marriage fall apart the way ours did?"

"Why, you…" Henry sprang forward, anger surging in his blood. Again, Anne grabbed his arm to restrain him. This time, however, she too rose, eyes sparking dangerously.

"You go too far, My Lord of Castile," she snapped, "I am not my mother. I have never kept you from Dickon. You could visit him any time you liked. You just never choose to."

"I will not stand idly by and watch you deny my son his birth right!" John snarled, choosing to ignore the uncomfortable truth in her previous words. Unable to help herself, Anne sneered her answer.

"Birth right? What birth right? I would remind you that Parliament have granted me the right to choose my own successor, should I not bear a daughter of my own blood. Richard has no more right to the throne than anyone else unless I decree otherwise."

"You'll never have a daughter," John hissed, "Why would God favour a spiteful child like you with one of His greatest gifts?"

The slightest pause was all the suggestion that John had touched a nerve with Anne, "As I said before, at least little Lady Lancaster is a niece I can be proud of."

John's jaw dropped, "Are you seriously considering leaving your throne to her?! Over my son? She's barely good enough to be at Court at all, let alone honoured with the Crown! Spain would never let you get away with it!"

"I said no such thing. The children are young, as am I. My reign has barely begun. Why would I be making any concrete moves to decide my heiress yet? But your claim that I will not have a daughter at all was treason, Prince John. I suggest you leave before I decide to punish you for it."

Anne's voice was a study of calm, but inwardly, she was shaking with fury. How dare he? How dare John come in here and try to stir up discord in her marriage. How dare he attack her on all fronts, no matter what reasons she offered or what she threatened him with? How dare he suggest she wasn't a good mother to Dickon? She was a better mother than he was a father, that was for sure! At least she'd _seen_ the boy in the last fifteen months!

"You wouldn't dare. You haven't got the courage," John scoffed, "Besides, what more can you take from me? It's not as if our settlement was particularly generous."

"You brought me nothing, remember? Your settlement was accepted by the Abbess of Canterbury and Madame Orsini herself as no less than your due considering your rank at the time of our annulment and that's all I'm saying on the subject," Anne retorted, "Not to mention that Spain seems to agree. For if they did not, I'm sure your mother would have organised you a pension by now. She favours you enough."

Though she would never admit it, Anne was gratified to see John fail to stop himself flinching at the harsh truth in her words. She exhaled sharply.

"I tire of this back-and-forth, my Lord. I acknowledge your fatherly concern for the Prince Richard, uncharacteristic though it seems to me, but I assure you, you have nothing to worry about. I do, however, suggest you leave immediately before I start acting upon my gross displeasure at Your Grace's horrendous conduct."

For the third time that evening, Henry stepped forward threateningly, and this time, Anne made no move to stop him. John, who had opened his mouth to retort, thought better of it. He allowed Henry to whisk him to the door, but couldn't resist one final jab as he crossed the threshold, "I see what you're implying, Madam. Our son is to be a hostage to my good behaviour, is he? That seems like the spiteful Jezebel I remember you as."

"You implied that, not me, My Lord of Castile. I wonder what kind of a man you are, that you would accuse England's mother of blaming an innocent child for his father's faults," Anne's tones remained remarkably measured, as they had throughout almost all their encounter, but her eyes told a different story. They spat poison until the door swung shut between them.

Having released John into the care of Anne's household guards, Henry crossed the room again and pulled her into his arms, feeling the way she shook against him.

"Why do you let him talk to you like that?" he said softly, "If I were in your shoes, I'd have made him a head shorter a long time ago."

"Don't tempt me," Anne sighed, "He's a Prince of Spain. I can't afford the diplomatic incident truly punishing him for his insolence would bring down on my head, and he knows it. Anyway, it doesn't really matter. He makes himself a figure of ridicule with those splendid tantrums of his. No one important takes him seriously. Once we have a girl, she'll be our proof that our marriage is valid; our dynasty unassailable. We can deal with him properly then. For now, it's best to let it slide, though I assure you I'll go for him if he slanders you or George or Bessie to any serious extent."

"He called Bessie a Scottish-Welsh brat!"

"And I corrected him sharply," Anne retorted, before sighing deeply, "Please. Just let it go, Henry. Once our daughter's born, John won't be able to hurt us anyway. Let's just get through the next few months, please."

And, in that instant, she looked so exhausted that Henry couldn't resist her. Though it galled him, he nodded.

"As you wish. Our daughter takes priority above all else."

It was Anne's turn to nod, "That she does. So, will you come to my bed tonight and work on fathering her?"

Henry smirked, "With pleasure, My Lady Queen."

* * *

George read his sister's letter and groaned inwardly. He'd hoped she and John would be able to at least be civil to one another now that they were no longer married, if only for Richard's sake, but apparently not. And if John truly feared that Anne would do something unforgivable to Richard – or something he considered unforgivable, at least, which wasn't quite the same thing – George wouldn't put it past him to try to insist that Juana bring the might of Spain down on his side to prevent her.

Not that Juana was likely to; not off John's word alone, at any rate. She, unlike her dratted brother, understood that Anne would never hurt an innocent child, and especially not one of her own blood. Juana would analyse any situation presented to her with the cool head it required, rather than with the heated, proud ire John seemed to exude whenever he was around Anne.

Still, it was probably best to warn her of these recent developments. Just to be on the safe side. Juana could be impetuous when she was caught off guard, and this situation might require careful handling if it escalated.

That thought in mind, George took the letter into Juana's darkened chambers, where she lay resting after the birth of their third healthy daughter some three weeks prior.

"Sweetheart," he bent and kissed her, lighting a couple of candles in order to see her better, "How are you feeling?"

"Better. But you've fathered a finicky one this time around, apparently."

"Have I?" George raised an eyebrow and Juana gave a half-shrug as she pushed herself into a sitting position, "Beatriz says her little namesake is more of a challenge than Cata and Ana put together."

"Are you sure I'm to blame? Who's to say our little lady hasn't just inherited your insistence on the finer things in life?" George teased, earning himself a playful smack on the arm.

"Stop it! You're incorrigible! I thought you were supposed to be pampering me while I'm in seclusion, not tormenting me."

"But darling. You know you love it."

George arched an eyebrow and Juana pulled a face at him. For a moment, she reminded him of the impulsive half-girl he had married almost a decade earlier, rather than the regal mother-of-three she had become. He twitched back out of reach in case she decided to try to slap him again and tossed the letter into her lap with studied carelessness, "It's from Anne. You may want to read it."

Curiosity sparked in Juana's eyes and she picked up the sheaf of parchment. She knew before she opened it that it must contain something momentous. George wouldn't have bothered to show it to her otherwise. Besides, he was only this deliberately careless when he was completely on edge.

Her dark eyes scanned the smooth, unbroken lines of ink quickly and George let her read in silence, toying with a seal that lay on the writing desk near her bed to try to hide his nerves.

" _Dios_! I don't believe it! I told him to make his peace with her! Will he never learn?"

The speed and fury of Juana's exclamation reassured George exactly whose side she was on. He swung round, eager to seal her allegiance to his sister, "You agree with me then, that John's behaviour was unpardonable? His accusations unfounded; born of jealousy?"

"Absolutely," Juana's face was taut with fury and, for once, the fact that George was still so eager to have her think the world of his little sister, as he did, didn't grate at all, "My dear brother has never been slow to jump to conclusions, especially not when it suits him to do so. I can see how he would easily go from Anne not offering Richard to the Bavarians to thinking she never intends to let him marry at all; that she intends to bury the boy in a monastery, even if Anne's said nothing of the sort. And if she's quoted him directly, then the insolence with which he spoke to her… I'm surprised she hasn't ordered him clapped in the Tower, if I'm honest. That being said, however…"

Juana trailed off. She'd been doing a lot of thinking during her confinement, about all sorts of matters, including her young sister in law. Not all the conclusions she'd come to were comfortable ones. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to share them with George, who, for all his wit and courage and other good qualities, had one great weakness. He truly believed his younger sister could do no wrong; that she must have fair and reasonable grounds for whatever she did, even when the evidence was stacked against that. As such, she wasn't sure how he'd take her most recent thoughts regarding his precious Anne.

Alerted by her silence, however, George crossed the room to sit on the edge of her bed. "Juana?" he prompted softly, taking her hand. Juana looked up and met his warm, concerned gaze. In that instant, she knew she couldn't shut him out or try to lie to him.

"It's just… I can't help… Oh, George, forgive me. I know Anne is your favourite sister and you adore her, but I can't help wondering. What if John's accusations aren't completely unfounded after all?"

"What? You can't seriously think that Anne would hurt Richard? Her little Dickon?"

George recoiled as though Juana's words had been a physical blow. She shot out her hand to catch his wrist and keep him at her side, imploring him to hear her out.

"Not hurt him, no. I agree with you, I don't think Anne is capable of either committing or ordering physical violence against a child. But, well…" Juana bit her lip, "She's never exactly been the most maternal towards Richard, has she? For all she nicknames him Dickon and her little falcon. Do you remember how terrified she was of holding him when we visited? Even you remarked on it, and forgive me, but you don't say much that could be seen as a criticism of your sister. And he was five months old by then. Even if she'd been nervous at first, she should have relaxed by then. And now she's sent him from Court."

"She said herself it's only because she wants him to grow up in peace. There's nothing wrong in that, is there?" George protested, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. Juana's eyes flashed away for an instant and then she locked their gazes once more.

"Not on its own, no. And Anne probably truly believes that reasoning. I might even accept it myself, if it wasn't for the presence of little Lady Lancaster. You have to admit that making _Mistress_ Elizabeth Sinclair a Duchess, ordering a Countess to act as her governess and raising the girl at Court is remarkable at best."

"My sister was made a Duchess the day she was christened and raised at Court. As was I."

"You and Mary were a Prince and Princess born. And even Mary's governess wasn't a Countess. But all that aside, your mother had been on the throne for years by the time Mary came along. Anne was two years old and everyone knew she was to be the next Queen. Your mother doting on Mary didn't change a thing there. But for Anne to be honouring a child above the norm so early in her reign, especially when it's not one of her own blood…well, can you see why it's raising red flags with me?"

George bit the inside of his cheek. There was an uncomfortable truth in Juana's words, one he didn't quite know what to do with.

Fortunately for him, Lady Beatriz entered just then, Cata and Ana clinging to her skirts and little Beatriz squirming and grizzling unhappily in her arms. Relieved to have the distraction, George took his youngest daughter off her hands and let her settle Ana and Cata near their mother, intervening only when their excitement overtook them and they stopped listening to Beatriz. Their bouncing was jolting Juana's still tender body and he could see how much pain it was causing her, for all she was keeping a brave smile pasted in place for the sake of the girls.

"Settle down, girls. Madre's still sore after Bea hurt her when she came out. You have to be gentle with her. You're old enough to know that by now."

They pouted, and pulled faces at their baby sister, clearly still not entirely happy about her arrival, but they did settle, especially when Juana slipped her arms around their waists and started telling them a story about her days growing up in the Alhambra. They loved those stories.

Baby Beatriz, on the other hand, was nowhere as easy to please. It took him quite a while to find the right position for her in his arms so that she was propped up a little and could see her surroundings better. Though he highly doubted she was truly taking them in, the change in position seemed to be to her liking, for only then did she quieten enough for him to answer Juana's question.

Said question had lost its sting in the interim. Indeed, it had almost been forgotten altogether, for Juana was quite surprised when he answered, and had to think quite hard to remember what he could be talking about.

"I don't know what to think really. You're right, Anne's behaviour is odd, but I learnt a long time ago that it's often best to give Anne her head when she's being stubborn. And one thing I do know. She has her share of the Howard pride. She'll not want the throne going to anyone but her own daughter, if she can help it. So, things will change when she has a daughter of her own. Until that point, well, if honouring little Mistress Sinclair and grooming her to succeed makes Anne feel more secure, is there any real harm in it?"

George broke off as Beatriz began whimpering again. He shifted her in his arms and hushed her softly for a moment or two. When, satisfied with her share of his attention, she dozed off, he dropped a light kiss on the crown of her downy head and glanced back at his wife.

"Let the matter be for now, love. To be honest, there's not much point interfering anyway. Things will change when Anne has a daughter of her own. You mark my words. Once there's a girl in the English nursery, Anne will sing a very different tune."

Juana bit the inside of her cheek, "If you wish. But George, you must understand. If Anne doesn't have a daughter and she tries to leave her throne to George rather than Richard, I'll be honour bound to step in and uphold Richard's rights. He's my nephew. The honour of Spain would permit nothing else. You do know that, don't you?"

George nodded, "I know. And I wouldn't try to stop you."

He sighed, then wandered over to look out of the window. Ana, their eldest daughter, slid off the bed and came over to him. He put his free arm down to rest it around her slight shoulders, squeezing her to him for a few moments. Then a thought came to him and he turned back to look at his wife, "What if she tries to leave it to Lady Lancaster?"

Silence greeted his question. For a few moments, he thought she wasn't going to answer at all. Just before he could prompt her, however, she exhaled slowly, very clearly forcing herself to relax.

"I hope she wouldn't," she admitted at last, "I hope she'd be content to leave the throne to Catalina or a younger daughter of Mary's or something. That's what her Parliament would have been expecting when they passed the Act. But she's not obliged to do so. They didn't word the Act like that. And besides, there is always the adoption clause. If Anne adopts a daughter, be that Lady Lancaster or someone else, then by law, they'll automatically become Princess of Wales. You know that. In that scenario, I wouldn't even try to fight for Richard's rights. He'd have no right for me to fight for."

"And we both know Anne well enough to know she wouldn't leave that sort of thing to chance. A Queen's word is law whilst she rules, but not from beyond the grave. If she did want to leave her throne to Lady Lancaster, she'd make damn well sure she adopted her first," George summarised. Juana nodded.

"And if she adopted her, canon law would forbid any marriage between her and little Richard, because Elizabeth would be Anne's legal daughter. So we could forget having so much as a Consort with Spanish ties."

"Unless we have a son. Then we could probably arrange a dispensation," George pointed out. Juana glared at him.

"One of these days, George, you are going to learn some tact. I'll beat it into your head if it's the last thing I do."

But she was smirking and made no protest when he crossed the room again and leaned down to kiss her. They'd been married almost a decade and were raising three healthy daughters. They knew instinctively what lines they could and could not cross. Nothing could truly get between them, not even matters as complex and emotive as these.


	26. XXV: Roses XI

_December 1512_

Bessie’s high peals of laughter drifted up to the windows of Anne’s private chambers. She scoffed in amusement at the sound of them and moved to the windows to see what had delighted her niece so. Henry was chasing the little girl through the snowdrifts, both of them crusted in white from head to foot.

Anne shook her head slightly in indulgent exasperation. Alerted by the movement, Susan was at her side in moments, clucking her tongue irritably.

“What’s His Highness thinking, playing in the snow with her like that? They’ll both catch their death!” she exclaimed, never taking her eyes off the merry pair below them.

“You know I’d be out there with them if I could,” Anne warned lightly and Susan shook her head.

“No, you wouldn’t, Your Grace. Or at least, I hope you would not. Until you have a daughter in the cradle, your health is of the paramount importance to us all and you need to take care of it. Your Majesty knows that as well as I.”

Anne sighed, “You’re right. But let His Grace and Lady Lancaster be, Susan,” She turned from the window, cupping her rounded belly as she did so. “God knows, I’d rather Henry was out there playing with Bessie than off somewhere doing goodness knows what.”

She was unwilling to discuss the matter any further, no matter how Susan pressed her. And that, Susan thought, rather said it all.

The last year and a half had been hard on the young Queen and her Consort. She’d thought herself with child not a month after she’d elevated Bessie to the Duchy of Lancaster, only to find, a month later, that it was a wishful hope and that she wasn’t with child after all. Coming so hard upon the heels of her father’s death, the disappointment had taken the wind out of her sails. She’d withdrawn into herself, only really rousing in little Lady Lancaster’s company. She had left her handsome Prince Consort rather adrift.

To His Highness’s credit, he’d tried to help her, in the best way he knew how. He’d played her troubadour almost constantly and organised a spate of festivities in an attempt to cheer her, believing that a whirlwind of gaiety might help ease her mind.

Unfortunately for him, Anne hadn’t seen it that way. She’d accused him of being callous and insensitive and they’d had the first serious quarrel of their marriage. The Palace had resounded with slamming doors and bitter words for over a month. There had even been rumours that His Grace had sought comfort in another woman’s bed, though no name could ever be pinned upon the lady. Susan rather thought that the gossip was likely unfounded – surely no woman at Court would be silly enough to try to sink her claws in to the Queen’s husband this early in their marriage. Anyway, His Grace had soon seen sense and appeased Anne by cancelling the rest of his planned entertainments and accompanying her on an autumn pilgrimage to Walsingham to beseech the Virgin to send them a Princess, preferably sooner rather than later. Their prayers had evidently paid off, for the Queen had announced another pregnancy at the Midsummer’s Day festivities. She was in her eighth month by now, blooming with health and carrying the child high – a sure sign of a girl, all the midwives had assured her. Things should really have been perfect between the royal couple.

But the rumours of His Highness having had a fling with another woman were there, nonetheless and Susan wasn’t entirely sure Anne didn’t believe them. She was certainly far more cautious with this pregnancy than she’d been whilst carrying either of the boys and was also far less demanding of her husband this time around. No doubt the Prince Consort was more relieved than he let on about that, but it worried Susan. Anne’s current behaviour had more than a few shades of her conduct during her marriage to the Prince of Castile. Were she and her and her new Consort past their halcyon days? It seemed so, and that was all well and good, but would they survive it? Their wooing of one another had been so swift, given the circumstances, and they’d burned so bright for the past two years, it was unnerving to see them mere sparks of themselves.

It was only to be hoped that this baby was a healthy girl. It would ease the pressure on both their shoulders, but especially Anne’s. She’d driven herself so hard in her quest for a daughter. Maybe if she had one, she’d stop fearing the future quite so much.

Bounding footsteps broke into Susan’s musings and she looked up to see that Anne had found a smile from somewhere as little Lady Lancaster burst into the room, shrieking her name excitedly.

“Aunt Anne! Aunt Anne! Did you see the snow Queen Uncle Henry and I built for you? Did you? We made it big enough for you to see from here and we named it Anne, after you!”

Bessie was babbling on, as she always did, her words blurring into one another in her excitement. Protocol long forgotten, as ever, she bounced over to Anne and, despite Susan’s warning tuts, Anne simply chuckled and opened her arms to the child.

“Did you!? I feel rather honoured. I don’t think I’ve ever had a snow figure named after me before. Babies and ships, yes, but no snow figures.”

“Well, it was so pretty it reminded me of you, so I told Uncle Henry we had to name it after you.”

“I see. And Uncle Henry agreed, did he?”

“Of course I did. I know better than to try to refuse Her Grace of Lancaster something,” Henry teased, entering the room far more sedately than his niece and bending to brush his lips first against Anne’s hand, then her cheek, “You look radiant, _breila.”_

“Flatterer,” Anne arched an eyebrow automatically, but there was none of the lustful spark in her voice there would have been in earlier times. Though she tried to hide it, she was still shaken by the major rift that had opened between Henry and herself the summer before last, when she’d been so disappointed that she wasn’t with child. Henry, being the younger son of a clearly fertile family, simply hadn’t understood her pain. He was a long way down the scale in terms of his importance to the family future, or at least, had been before his marriage to her. He didn’t, couldn’t, know what it was like to have the future of the country resting entirely upon her shoulders. And that, Anne mused, was the fundamental difference between their characters. Henry saw power as an entitlement, as an excuse to indulge his love for gaiety and the finer things in life. He didn’t share the sense of duty and responsibility that she’d had drilled into her since before she could walk or talk.

It wasn’t that Anne begrudged him his love for pageantry. On the contrary, she shared it, but their arguments had suggested that there might be a worrying lack of depth to her young husband, for all his polished gallantry.

And then there were the rumours that he’d taken another woman to his bed while they were fighting. Anne didn’t want to believe them, but try as she might, she couldn’t completely dismiss them. He was young and handsome and the richest and most powerful man in England. What woman’s head wouldn’t be turned by him, if he chose to honour her with his attentions? God knew she’d been susceptible to them, when she was trapped in a marriage to man she despised.

 _“Still,”_ she reminded herself, watching Henry toss Bessie in the air and then call for a lute so he could sit down to play with her on his lap, holding the instrument steady for him, _“He’s a family man. He’s been nothing but wonderful with the children and he’s never been anything other than courteous to me. Even when we argued, he was only doing his best to help, really. It wasn’t his fault he had no hope of understanding where I was coming from. I’ve been too hard on him this past year. Too paranoid. Things will change in the New Year. Once we have our little girl. She can be a fresh start for the both of us.”_

Thus decided, she sank back into her chair and let the music Henry and Bessie were making wash over her, only jolting out of her reverie when Bessie spoke to her, “Aunt Anne?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Uncle Henry says the baby’s going to be a girl this time. Are you going to call her Matilda, like George was supposed to be?”

Anne glanced across at Henry. They hadn’t really discussed names this time around. That had been her doing. She’d been afraid to jinx this pregnancy by dreaming of the future too early.

He shrugged, answering her unspoken question, which comforted her. They could still communicate without the need for words. She looked back at Bessie and spread her hands slightly, “I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe. But I haven’t really thought about it. Nor has Uncle Henry. Sometimes, it’s hard to choose a baby’s name ahead of time. Sometimes you just have to wait until they arrive and see what suits them. I had to decide on a boy’s name that suited George, after all, didn’t I? But we’ll most likely choose a family name for her. Or one from a famous Queen through history. What do you think we should call your baby cousin?”

Bessie wrinkled her nose, deep in thought, “Katherine’s pretty. Like my Mama. Or Helen, like Helen of Troy. Her story’s so romantic, the way Paris was willing to go to war for her,” Bessie paused before a thought struck her, “You’re not calling her Bessie, though. Or Elizabeth. That’s my name!”

“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Anne soothed, catching Henry’s eye and struggling to hide her laughter. Clearly someone was going to have to have a word with Lady Warwick. The Greek myths appeared to have gone right over Bessie’s head.

“You’ll have to promise to be a good older cousin, though,” Anne warned, “I know you already are to George, but a girl is special, especially the first girl. I’ll do my best to bring her up to be a good Queen, but you’ll have to help me. After all, who better for her to look up to than her big cousin? I’ll bet you’ll have more influence over her than anyone else. You’ll be the most important person in her life, at least when I’m busy with matters of state.”

As Anne had expected, Bessie puffed with pride at the thought of being the most important person in her little cousin’s life, “I will, I promise! I’ll teach her everything I can!”

“I’m sure you will,” Anne smiled, ruffling Bessie’s hair as she slid off Henry’s lap and came to lean against the divan Anne was propped up on, “But that means you have to start remembering to listen to Lady Warwick and not being naughty. Hmm? It won’t do for England to have a naughty Princess, now, will it?”

“Oh, but…” Bessie pouted, and Anne laughed, shooing her away, “Think about it. Being the Princess of Wales’s older cousin is a big responsibility. You can ask Lady Suffolk if you don’t believe me. She acted as my older sister when we were children.”

“Really?” Bessie’s eyes went wide as she forgot she was out of sorts in the face of this new information and Anne nodded, “She’ll agree with me. It is a big responsibility. But it’s one I’m sure you’re up to. So don’t let me down, all right? I’m relying on you. Now, go and find Lady Warwick, please. You’re dripping everywhere and you need to get out of those wet things before you catch your death.”

“Yes, Aunt Anne,” Bessie bestowed a swift kiss to her cheek and skipped off happily. Henry and Anne watched her go, a comfortable silence stretching between them.

* * *

A few days later, Henry was dining with Anne in her chambers when the thought struck him that, not only had they not truly discussed names for their daughter, but they’d not chosen her godparents, either.

“Anne?” he ventured, unsure of entirely what reaction he’d get. Anne had been warm towards him recently; indeed, she’d almost been reminiscent of the days when they’d been courting, but he knew only too well how fickle her moods could be, especially this late into pregnancy. The horrifying weeks prior to George’s birth, when he could barely leave her side, yet could scarcely please her even when he _was_ with her, were seared indelibly into his mind.

Thankfully, this time she pushed aside the plate of salmon she’d been toying with and beamed up at him.

“Yes, love?”

“Bessie’s question about our daughter’s name the other day got me thinking. We haven’t discussed godparents yet. Any ideas?”

“I thought my sister Juana for godmother, and maybe Madame Orsini. She did make it possible for me to wed you, after all,” Anne’s lips softened into a gentle smile as she spoke, one Henry was only too happy to return. To be able to count the future Queen of Spain and a Magdalene of Rome among her godparents would only enhance his daughter’s status. She’d be the best-connected Princess in all of Europe!

Anne arched an eyebrow at the open delight on his face, “I take it you’re pleased?”

“You do my daughter too great an honour, My Lady.”

“ _Our_ daughter,” Anne breathed, falling back into the role of generous, adoring wife and mistress easily, despite how rarely she’d played it in recent months. It was nice to have the rift between them mended once and for all, “ _Our_ daughter, Henry. She deserves every advantage I can secure for her.”

He took her hand and kissed it for that comment. Anne smirked to herself and tilted her head up at him coquettishly, “I thought we might make your cousin William her godfather.”

This time, he couldn’t restrain himself. He sprang up and raced round the table to rain grateful kisses down upon her beautiful dark hair.

“I told you our children would be brought up to know both sides of their heritage,” she whispered, relaxing into him for what felt like the first time in a long, long, while, “I would never go back on that. Never. I swear.”

* * *

The sun was still several hours from rising on Twelfth Night Anno Domini 1513, the third anniversary of Anne’s coronation, when Henry was shaken roughly awake by a maid.

“Wh – what? It’s – Wh…” he spluttered, shaking his head groggily and dragging himself into a sitting position. As he blinked the sleep out of his eyes, his vision focused. He realised the woman was wearing the Queen’s livery first, then recognised her.

It was Ursula Catesby, one of the ladies attending Anne during her confinement.

His mind was suddenly crystal clear.

“Ursula! Is it the Queen?”

Ursula curtsied, “Forgive the awakening, My Lord. I know it is an ungodly hour. But I thought Your Highness would wish to know at once. The Queen’s pains have begun.”


	27. XXVI: Roses XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For TheAwesomeWriter, who persuaded me that I'd kept you all in suspense for long enough!

Anne couldn’t ever remember being this tired. She’d woken in the early hours of the morning with a contraction and now she was so shattered she barely even felt the pain of them. She was sure this labour had gone on far longer than George’s, or even Richard’s. Maybe even longer than both of them together. In the strangest of sensations, she felt her back arch as a contraction rippled through her without being fully aware of the proceedings. It was as though she wasn’t really in her own body any more. Her hands closed reflexively around the rope she was supposed to be bracing herself upon. Her eyes were begging to fall shut; had been for hours. At last, she let them, feeling blackness overtake her…

Only to come to, gasping and choking, as Sybil flung a jug of water at her, catching her full in the face.

“Oh no you don’t!” The older woman snarled, ceremony forgotten in the urgency of the moment, “Stay with us, Anne. You’ll stay with us, do you hear me? We need you now more than ever. The head’s about to crown and we need you. This Princess needs you!”

Everything seemed to happen very quickly after that. After countless hours of pain, toil and darkness, things came to a head in a great rush of moisture and warmth and life. England’s newest royal child slid into the world, kicking and displaying a very healthy pair of lungs.

The midwife swept it up, washing and swaddling it so quickly and so expertly that no one felt they had a right to interrupt the operation, even as they waited with bated breath. Which meant the midwife was the first to speak as she nodded to Eliza to prop Anne and placed the child in her arms.

“Congratulations, Your Majesty. You’ve done your duty. You have a beautiful baby daughter.”

* * *

Henry didn’t even need to ask. When Meg came out of Anne’s lying-in chamber, grinning from ear to ear, he knew. With a bellow of joy, he swept her off her feet.

“Bless all the Saints!” he exclaimed, before pulling back to examine Meg’s face, “She’s healthy?”

“Came out kicking and screaming with all the spirit of a Howard,” Meg chuckled, “She’s a little lioness, this one.”

“Then perhaps we should call her Leonora,” Henry joked, and Meg scoffed, “Good luck with that! Her Grace will want an English name for her daughter. Now for goodness sake go and see them both.”

In a daring breach of protocol, she gave him a little push towards the door. Henry chuckled and let her, pausing only long enough to say, “Send word to Lady Vaughan. Have the bells rung in celebration!” before he was gone, surging into Anne’s rooms to meet his new daughter.

Anne met his gaze as he entered, eyes gleaming with euphoria.

“We have a daughter,” she breathed, “Henry, my love, we have a daughter.”

He returned her beaming smile, “I know,” he said gently, “I’ve given permission for the bells to be rung in celebration.”

“We have a daughter,” Anne repeated. It was as if she hadn’t even heard him, or as if she was incapable of saying anything else in her joyous disbelief that everything was working out at last.

Seating himself carefully beside her on the bed, he cupped his hand over hers around the child’s head.

“Let me look at her,” he whispered.

Anne was only too happy to comply. The two of them sat in silence for several long moments, drinking in every tiny detail of her appearance.

“What are we going to call her?” Henry asked at last. Anne stifled a groan.

“Do we have to think about that now? I’m happy just holding her.”

“Well, she does need a name. She needs christening and announcing to the people.”

“The bells will tell them she’s here,” Anne protested, before she shook herself. What was she thinking? If she didn’t make an announcement of the child’s name, people would fear for her health and think she was close to death when nothing could be further from the truth. And baptism would welcome her daughter into God’s chosen flock; protect her from the demons inside her; from the unfathomable evils done to unconsecrated souls. That couldn’t be allowed to happen to this little blessing. Of course she had to be named and dedicated to the Lord.

“I’m sorry. I’m so happy, I’m not thinking clearly. You’re right, of course. Have you any ideas for names?”

“She’s such a precious gift, I’d call her Elizabeth, but I rather think that name’s taken in our nursery.”

“Indeed. Bessie would not be happy,” Anne chuckled and Henry raised an eyebrow, “You spoil her too.”

“We digress,” Anne retorted, refusing to rise to his bait, although the speed of her response was answer enough in its own right. Henry smirked and then sobered.

“Joanna, perhaps, for her godmother?”

“I thought of that,” Anne admitted, “But she doesn’t look like a Joanna, not to me.”

“Well, I don’t know how the Court would react to Lucretia, if that’s your other thought?”

“Er, no. Better not. I think the Princess of Wales had best have an English name.”

“Oh? Not a Welsh one?”

“Henry! Be serious!”

Suddenly, they were both laughing, laughing so hard they couldn’t stop. They were young and giddy with the relief of having secured England’s future and they simply couldn’t stop laughing. It was only when they were both dizzy and breathless and their new-born daughter was wailing ferociously at having been startled that they managed to regain some semblance of self-control. Wiping her eyes, Anne handed the screeching infant off to Henry.

“Here. Hold her. Maybe if you hold her, you’ll come up with a more sensible suggestion for her name.”

Henry did as he was bid, balancing the precious infant in his arms cautiously, far more cautiously than he had her older brother, and rocked her a little to soothe her. As she quietened, he looked down at her for a few moments, then back up at Anne. He opened his mouth, intending to suggest Margaret or Mary, after one of his sisters.

“Cecily,” came out of his mouth instead, “She’s a Cecily. Just look at her. She’s definitely a Cecily.”

“For your aunt?” Anne questioned. Henry shrugged.

“It could be. But I had my great-grandmother in mind, actually.”

“Well, she was certainly a fine diplomat. And a beauty, so they say.”

“Indeed. They called her the Rose of Raby. Except this one will be the Rose of all of England,” Henry whispered, enraptured by his daughter’s features.

Anne thought about it for a few seconds, then exhaled.

“You’ve made me so happy. How could I say no? And you’re right. Cecily suits her. Cecily it is. Cecily, Princess of Wales and Duchess of Cornwall.”

So saying, she reached out and touched Henry’s arm. He looked up at her and, in that instant, as their eyes met with their tiny daughter snuffling contentedly between them, they could have been the only two people in the world. The only two people in what promised to be a golden world.

* * *

“How long do you think it’ll be before Her Majesty tires of little Lady Lancaster’s presence at Court, now that she’s got a daughter of her own?”

The speaker didn’t trouble to keep her voice down, thus earning herself a sharp hushing from her companion, “Mind your tongue! Little Lady Lancaster is the Queen’s niece, and Her Majesty clearly adores her. Did she not have her carry the chrism at the child’s Christening two days ago? That doesn’t suggest that she’s tiring of her to me!”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! I don’t mean anything against the little lady herself, of course not, though God knows she’s spoilt, but honestly. What good’s a ward to Her Majesty, really? And a ward who isn’t even related to her by blood? Especially with a Princess in the nursery? You saw what happened when Prince George was born. She didn’t need her older son then, and have we seen him at Court since that portrait was finished?”

Her companion bit the inside of her cheek. She couldn’t deny the truth in that, “Well, I suppose we haven’t, no.”

“Exactly,” the first speaker finished triumphantly, “Mark my words, once Her Highness of Wales is passed over into Lady Warwick’s care, little Lady Lancaster will find her life changing quite a bit. She may even find herself shunted off to the country. It wouldn’t surprise me!”

Bessie froze at the sound of the maids’ voices. Aunt Anne wouldn’t send her away, surely? She loved her, she always told her so!

_“But they’re right. Richard was sent away when George was born. She didn’t need another boy. So now she’s got Cecily, why would she need you?”_

The thought was a nasty one and Bessie shook her head, trying to clear it, “Aunt Anne loves me. She wouldn’t’ send me away. Uncle Henry wouldn’t let her.”

She said the words out loud, trying to make them seem more true, but she couldn’t. What if the maids were right? What if Aunt Anne and Uncle Henry didn’t need her, now that they had a little girl of their own? What would happen to her then?

* * *

“Princess Cecily. Cecily, Princess of Wales,” James tried the name out on his tongue, “A bonny name for what I’m sure is a bonny child.”

“Indeed, Sire. I’m told Her Highness’s birth is the cause of much rejoicing in Westminster,” Lady Mary Somerset, the English envoy to Scotland replied carefully. The letter she’d received from her cousin Lady Pembroke had been positively blissful at the thought of having a Princess to secure the Succession, but she was wary of emphasising that too much. It wouldn’t be politic, considering King James and the Duchess of Orkney still had no daughter of their own. Their second son, Robert, had been born the previous September and as yet, there was no sign that he might be joined in the nursery by a little sister. It was early days, of course, but still. Lady Somerset didn’t feel comfortable lauding her mistress’s success too loudly.

King James, however, smiled widely at her.

“As it will be here in Edinburgh, of course.”

“Sire?” Lady Somerset blinked at his words. Had she really heard him correctly? Could he really be thinking of celebrating Princess Cecily’s birth, even though she wasn’t Scottish?

James waved a hand expansively, “Oh, come now, Lady Somerset. Cecily is my niece through the Duchess. Of course I am going to be pleased to hear of her birth, especially given the warm regard I have for my beloved sister, your royal mistress. What could be more fitting than that I have Edinburgh’s bells rung in celebration of her birth, when I would do no less for a son of my own?”

“Your Majesty is too gracious,” Lady Somerset murmured, dipping into a half-curtsy.

James waved her away, deep in thought. He’d have to send Anne a gift for the child. A piece of jewellery, perhaps. Yes, that would be eminently suitable. He’d have one of Mary’s women, maybe his half-sister, go through his mother’s personal jewels with him and help him choose. He had in mind one of the bracelets. A bracelet would do well, it would be something the girl could keep throughout her life.

Clapping his hands, he sent someone running for his half-sister, before disappearing into his study to craft a personal note of congratulations to Anne.

* * *

The pealing bells startled Mary out of her reverie. In alarm, she cast through her mind swiftly, trying to remember if there was some high day or holiday she’d forgotten. She drew a blank, however. And it couldn’t be a death. They sounded too joyous for that.

Puzzled, she glanced round. Margaret Drummond, the King’s much younger half-sister by his father’s second marriage to Lady Drummond, glanced up at her confusion and answered her unspoken question.

“My brother ordered them to celebrate your niece Cecily’s birth, Madam. Was that not kind of His Majesty?”

Margaret could barely keep the insolence out of her voice. She despised her half-brother’s wife. She was no better than a spoilt child, for all she tried to masquerade as a woman. Or so the King had once said, when he’d been deep in his cups. Margaret couldn’t say that, in her six months in the Duchess’s service, she’d seen anything to disprove that assessment. Mary Howard still wept and threw ugly tantrums whenever she was thwarted. She still clung to her former governess as though the woman was the source of all goodness and wisdom in the world. Margaret often thought that she, at eleven, was more of a woman than Mary Howard was at seventeen.

Most of the Duchess’s Scottish ladies, though they shared many of Margaret’s feelings, hid their derision of their mistress as best they could, at least in public, if only to save her brother face. Margaret, however, had no such qualms. She was the King’s sister and he adored her. She could get away with borderline disrespect for his consort far more easily than any other member of the Duchess’s household.

As she did now. When the Duchess murmured some insipid response to her reply and went back to her sewing, she stood up, crossing the room to be nearer her mistress so she could watch her face out of the corner of her eye as she went on, “Yes, my brother was so pleased to hear of Princess Cecily’s birth that he took me to the treasury to find a bracelet he could send her. We chose one that belonged to His Grace’s late mother.”

She caught Mistress Fleming’s eye, silently begging her to take up the cue. And Mistress Fleming, who adored mischief, was only too quick to do so.

“Do you know which one, Margaret?”

Margaret cocked her head and pretended to think about it.

“I believe,” she said slowly, “That it was the curved pearl and ruby one.”

She saw the Duchess stiffen at that and sat back, smirking. She’d said enough. Let the fireworks begin.

Mary had been trying her hardest to ignore her maids’ gossiping. She’d even let Margaret’s insolence slide, though it had galled her. Not that she’d had much choice. James doted on the girl. Ever since Margaret had joined her household six months before and whenever Mary had complained of her insolence, he’d brushed her aside, _“Maggie’s young. She’s getting used to Court. Give her time, she’ll learn to respect you soon.”_ And by now, Mary barely dared complain at all, lest James think she was unable to control her own ladies.

But hearing Margaret comment so casually that James had sent a pearl and ruby bracelet for England for little Cecily made her see red.

 She knew which one they meant. There was only one pearl and ruby bracelet in the collection. She’d adored it the moment she’d seen it. And James had promised her it would be hers the moment she gave him a daughter. He’d promised! So how could he send it to little Cecily! How!!

She dropped the shirt she was sewing him abruptly.

“I find I no longer have a taste for embroidery,” she quavered, determined not to cry in front of her Scottish ladies, “You are dismissed, ladies. Send Lady Guilford to me.”

Margaret heard the tremor in Lady Orkney’s voice and smirked to herself. Oh yes. A storm was brewing sure enough.

She rose to her feet, but dawdled over packing away her embroidery silks and making for the door. The more she pushed the Duchess’s buttons, the more entertaining the ensuing show would be. For Margaret had no intention of going anywhere that was out of earshot. The other ladies glanced knowingly at each other over Margaret’s antics, but followed her lead nonetheless. She was the King’s sister, after all.

For her part, Mary flushed angrily. How dare her ladies disrespect her by delaying over following her express orders like this? No one in England would ever have dared slight her like that. In fact, her English ladies still didn’t.

“Did you not hear me, ladies? I said you are dismissed! It is Lady Guilford I want, not you!”

“Yes, Madam. Our sincerest apologies,” Margaret layered her voice with the slightest hint of sarcasm and dropped down into an exaggerated curtsy before sweeping from the room. She didn’t need to look back to know that the rest of Mary’s Scottish household were doing the same.

Mary watched them go, hating every second of their false courtesy. It seemed an eternity before Lady Guilford came bustling into the room.

“Yes, My Lady? What can I do for you?”

“It’s not fair! James doesn’t respect me as his wife! I know he doesn’t!” Mary flung herself at her former governess, sobbing.

“Hush now, hush. I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems, Madam. King James is an honourable man, after all. He won’t allow you to be openly disrespected. Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me everything, hmm?” Lady Guilford caught Mary with an ease born of years of practice and patted her back soothingly, trying not to get her hands caught in the golden hair spilling from the confines of the young woman’s emerald-encrusted hood.

Inwardly, she was sighing. She’d always intended to raise the young Duchess better than this. But the Eltham nursery had half-ruined the girl before she’d even met her, and between the late Queen’s love for her younger daughter and the fact that Mary’s sweet nature had hidden the worst of how indulged she’d really been until they’d come to Scotland, well, she hadn’t been nearly as strict with her as she should have been. She realised that now. But now it was too late. Now, Mary was used to tantrums getting her her own way, and anyway, was too wound up, in the midst of a storm, for reason to do any good. The only thing that could be done was to coddle her through the worst of it; make her feel as though she’d been understood, and then attempt to remind her later, when she’d calmed down, that she really knew better than to act like that.

And Mary was in the midst of a storm now. She seethed and writhed in Lady Guilford’s hold, stamping her feet and trying to seize hold of something to throw it at the wall, screaming and crying as she did so.

“Honourable! Honourable?! When he ‘forgets’ to tell me he’s ringing the bells for my niece and makes me look a fool in front of my own household?!”

“I’m sure it was an honest mistake, Madam. Or if it wasn’t, His Majesty probably thought you’d see it as a pleasant surprise.

 “Liar! You know he wouldn’t have told me; he never tells me anything! He treats me like a child!”

Mary stamped her foot and Lady Guilford, with remarkable self-restraint, refrained from pointing out that, with behaviour like this, Mary was doing little to dispel that image. It wasn’t her place to point that out, not anymore. Mary was a woman grown, long past accepting a governess’s hand on the reins. And anyway, the girl needed _someone_ in her corner. No matter how personally embarrassing Lady Guilford found her conduct, she would always defend Mary Howard, at least in public. Her loyalty to the girl’s late mother and her pity for the girl herself, forced into the role of Consort at a Court that barely wanted to accept her, never mind honour her, at so young an age, forbade her from doing anything else. That thought in mind, she patted Mary’s hand.

“He may not have told you, Princess, but His Majesty rang them out of respect for your niece. When you think about it, you’ll realise it’s an honour really. His Majesty didn’t have to have Edinburgh’s bells rung for an English Princess, now, did he?”

“I had to find out from his sister! His sister! You know how she hates me!”

At that, Lady Guilford grimaced despite herself. King James really could have handled that better. Young Margaret Drummond was too aware of her own importance at the best of times, let alone when she had a reason to lord it over the girl who was supposed to be _her_ mistress. Even if he hadn’t wanted to tell Mary himself, surely there had to have been messengers who could have broken the news more gently than Mistress Drummond had doubtless done.

And then Mary sobbed again and the real reason for her distress became all the clearer, “He’s going to send Cecily the pearl and ruby bracelet. Cecily!”

“I’m sure His Grace means it as a precious gift for a treasured royal niece, no more,” Lady Guilford soothed. She knew how much the bracelet had come to mean to Mary and couldn’t help cursing that, of all the pieces in the treasury, His Grace had chosen precisely that one to be sent to London.

“ _No_! Don’t you see!” Mary stamped her foot again and tore her hood off furiously, “Don’t you _see_ , Gilly? He swore I could have that bracelet once I’d given him a daughter. _He swore_! Everyone in Scotland knows he did. If he’s sending that bracelet to London, then he’s publicly saying that he thinks I’ll never give him a daughter. And if he thinks that, then what’s to stop him petitioning to have our marriage annulled? What?!”

Now even Lady Guilford’s legendary patience wore thin, “Don’t be ridiculous, My Lady. You’re exaggerating. You’re overtired and you’re reading too much into this. No one else will remember what King James said about that bracelet. They’ll see it the same way His Grace evidently does, as an innocent gift sent to honour his beautiful baby niece the way she deserves. Now come, let me get you into bed. Everything will look better once you’ve rested, hmm?”

She knew she was treating Mary like a child, but there was nothing else for it. It truly was the only way to handle her when she was like this. Still flailing, screaming and cursing James’s name, Mary allowed herself to be undressed and tucked under the covers of her lavish four-poster. She flipped herself on to her front and began pummelling her pillows as any child in the throes of a tantrum might.

Lady Guilford straightened, “There, My Lady. You have a nice rest, hmm? I’m going to go and mend your dresses. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

“No!” Mary howled, “NO! You have to stay! STAY! No one understands me like you do, Gilly! You have to STAY!”

Writhing furiously, she caught hold of Lady Guilford’s arm and begged her so piteously that Lady Guilford felt she truly had no choice. Feeling as though she’d stepped at least fifteen years back in time, and wishing from the bottom of her heart that she knew how to stop such scenes occurring, she sank back on to the bed. She sat beside Mary, stroking the tangled golden hair and whispering soothing nonsense, until the teenage Duchess had finally sobbed herself to sleep.

 


	28. XXVII: Roses XIII

The jousts to celebrate little Cecily's birth were barely over before Anne was making her next moves to secure the girl a glittering future. As part of that, she called Margaret into her lying-in chamber.

"Come and greet your niece, Lady March," she beamed, plastering a smile on to her face despite her own exhaustion, as she knew was expected of her, and gesturing expansively to the cradle that stood beside her bed, "Is she not the prettiest babe you've ever seen?"

Margaret stepped up to the cradle and bent over her niece, studying her up close for the first time. She paused for a few seconds, knowing that it was only diplomatic to actually seem to have looked at the child, for all they both knew that she would have called Cecily beautiful whether she was or not.

"Indeed, Your Grace," she said at last, "England is lucky to have such a fine Princess."

"Henry calls her his rose. Like your great-grandmother, the Rose of Raby."

"Is that who Her Highness is named for?" Margaret couldn't hide her surprise, "I thought it would be our aunt Cecily."

"That's what I thought at first, but he insisted your great-grandmother was his true inspiration," Anne replied, before signing to Margaret to hand her her daughter. She held the sleeping child close, running a hand over the downy fuzz on the crown of the infant's head.

To her surprise, she found herself instinctively trying to sync her breathing with Cecily's. An intense surge of protectiveness and a deep-seated need to know the child still breathed filled her every time she laid eyes on Cecily, something she hadn't felt with either of her sons. Absently, she wondered if this was what maternal love was truly like. Everyone had always told her she'd love Richard when he was born, despite her dislike of his father, just because he was her son. Yet she'd felt nothing but terror whenever she'd held him or even heard him. And her relationship with the new-born George had been little better, though she'd made more of an effort to hide it that time around. For Henry's sake, if nothing else. He'd been so worried she'd forsake him because he hadn't sired a girl on her at the first time of trying that she hadn't wanted to give him any further cause for concern. Besides, once he'd got over the shock of George's gender, he'd been so convinced that they'd all be the golden family of England; the happiest in the land, that who had she been to deny him? And anyway, it had all been worth it. Cecily was here, squealing, kicking and gurgling or screaming as the mood took her, and it was all worth it.

A discreet cough recalled Anne to Margaret's presence. She jolted. How long had she been like that, musing to herself whilst poor Margaret stood awaiting orders? It was inexcusable!

"Forgive me, Lady March. You must be wondering why I have called you here," she said gently.

"I wait upon Your Majesty's pleasure. You do not need to explain yourself to me, Your Grace," Margaret said smoothly. Anne half-raised her free hand.

"Very pretty. But I am not just your Queen, I am your sister. And as your sister, I must beg your pardon for ignoring you so. Please, accept my apologies," She paused and when Margaret nodded, went on, "Now, a girl as fine as this should have a fine husband, do you not agree?"

"Oh yes, Your Majesty!" Margaret concurred quickly, eager to please her young sovereign. She'd realised very quickly after Cecily's birth that, considering how beloved Henry was likely to be now, having given the Queen her heart's desire, she hadn't exactly been the best of sisters to him. If she didn't reform her behaviour, she'd risk missing out on the honours that were bound to be showered upon their family, at least if Cecily survived her first dangerous year, if not before. And she couldn't let that happen. She was supposed to be head of the Plantagenet family. It was bad enough that she had to follow the hem of Bessie's gown and call her 'Your Grace' and 'My Lady Lancaster'. It would get even worse if others in their family were promoted at her expense as well.

Anne knew nothing of Margaret's private thoughts, of course. She simply returned the older woman's eagerness with a smile.

"I'm glad you feel that way, Lady March, for I'm not sending you back to Flanders. I'm dispatching you to Portugal, effective immediately. They have a surplus of sons and I'm entrusting you with the task of securing one of them as a groom for our beloved Princess Cecily. Not the eldest, perhaps. The age gap would be too big and besides, I'd fear a Prince would be raised to be as arrogant as my first husband. But one of the younger ones would do nicely. Lord Louis or Lord Ferdinand, shall we say?"

Margaret curtsied, "You do me great honour by entrusting me with this task, Madam."

"I can think of no one more apt to send. After all, who better to champion a Princess's cause than her own aunt?"

Anne leaned carefully from the bed and raised Margaret from her curtsy and kissed her cheek, "Go with my blessing, sister Margaret. See to it that you have the steel that my mother's envoys lacked."

There was a sudden bite to Anne's usually melodious voice and Margaret paused, "If I may, Your Majesty. It was not your mother's envoys that lacked steel, but Your Grace's mother herself. You, on the other hand, have the steel that she lacked. You have that steel and I'm proud to serve it. In my humble opinion, Madam, you're twice the Queen your mother ever was."

The simple speech rang with sincerity and tears came to Anne's eyes at the sound of it. She turned her head away so that Margaret wouldn't see the emotion that leapt in her face.

"Thank you, Lady March," she whispered at last, voice thick, try as she might to hide it behind grave formality, "That means more than you know."

* * *

A blast on a trumpet broke into Anne's reverie and she jolted ever so slightly as her herald announced, "Lady Lancaster to see you, Your Majesty."

Anne beamed at the little girl and held out her arms, "Bessie, darling. Come and give me a kiss."

Bessie did so, but she wasn't her usual bubbly self and, when Anne asked if she wanted to hold Cecily, she wavered, before shaking her head, "I'd better not. I might drop her."

"Nonsense! Of course you won't! You never dropped George, did you, and you were much younger when he was born. You're a little lady now, of course you're not going to drop her. Now, come here. Cecily would like a cuddle with her big cousin."

Anne had the little girl nestle up against her side and placed Cecily in her arms before she could protest any further. Fortunately, Cecily was much more placid than either of her older brothers had been as babies and, though her eyes blinked open sleepily, she didn't protest at the change of scenery.

To Anne's surprise, Bessie's arms closed convulsively around the child and she bent her head over her, whispering fiercely to her, words that Anne, even sitting as close to the two as she was, couldn't make out. She watched them with rising alarm and, when Cecily began to cry at how tightly Bessie was holding her, she was only too relieved to see Eliza come hurrying over to them and taking the Princess away from her.

"Lady Lancaster, you need to be more careful with your cousin. You know that. You have to hold her more gently. She's our Princess of Wales, we can't have any harm coming to her," Eliza scolded softly, putting Cecily over her shoulder and rubbing her back to soothe her.

When she was calm, Eliza held her out, "Here, do you want to try again?"

This time, however, Bessie shook her head, "No! I'm sorry! I'm sorry, please! Please don't send me away! I didn't mean to scare her or hurt her! I'll be the best older cousin you can think of, just please don't send me away!"

She threw herself into Anne, knocking them both back against the wall as she sobbed. Shocked and winded, Anne could think of nothing to do but close her arms around the little girl's trembling figure, gritting her teeth against her own pain.

Bessie's cries startled Cecily, setting her off again, which only made Bessie sob harder. Making a split-second decision, Anne waved Eliza and the baby away, still more comfortable around a child who had at least reached the age of reason than an infant, even if both were crying.

Holding Bessie close, she stroked the vibrant copper hair until the little girl had calmed enough to be able to speak, "Oh," she breathed, "Oh, sweetheart. What's brought this on, hmmm? Why on earth would we ever want to send you away? You're our darling Duchess of Lancaster. You're not going anywhere."

"But you sent Richard away. You sent him away when I came to Court and George was born. He was sent away when he had a brother. So won't I be sent away now that Cecily's here? You don't need me at Court, not now that Cecily's born. After all, I'm just your ward. I'm not even your niece, not really!"

"Who's been telling you that?" Anne snatched up the little girl's chin in pointed fingers, making her squeal with the pain, "Who's been telling you such horrible lies?"

"No one! Honest! I just... It's true, isn't it? You don't need me anymore!" Bessie dissolved into tears again and Anne cursed inwardly. She knew only too well how Bessie had got this idea into her head. She'd have overheard the maids gossiping. Goodness knows she'd done exactly the same often enough as a child.

"Bessie, listen to me, darling," she whispered into the child's hair. When that had no effect, she tightened her hold on the child, "Elizabeth."

At the unexpected use of her full name, Bessie looked up with watery eyes.

"I don't care what the maids are saying. None of it is true. None of it, do you hear me? You are my niece and I adore you. I am never going to send you away. Ever. I promise you that. I will never send you away. Not on your own. If you go at all, you'll go with your cousins. Because you are mine. You are my niece, my Duchess of Lancaster and my beloved Bessie. Nothing and no one will ever be able to change that, no matter what they say or what they think. Yes, Cecily is the Princess of Wales, but do you remember what I said to you before George was born, back when we thought he was going to be a girl and we were going to call him Matilda?"

Bessie shook her head slightly, still not trusting enough to speak.

"Cecily may be the Princess, but you're her older cousin. Who better for her to look up to than her older cousin, hmm? When she gets older, you'll be the most important person in her life, because it'll be you she looks up to and expects to teach her the things I can't teach her, like how to get around your governesses and how to play dolls and all those sorts of things. Didn't I tell you that?"

Bessie thought back and realised she did remember something like that. And it seemed truer now, with Aunt Anne's arms around her, hugging her, than it had been when she'd been on her own. She nodded tentatively.

"Good. So you see, we do need you after all. How on Earth would we bring Cecily up without you? Now. Let's have no more of this nonsense about you being sent away. You're not going anywhere. Now, run and see if you can't find your lute. I believe I promised to teach you a new song, didn't I?"

Tears banished, Bessie bobbed her head eagerly and scrambled off the bed.

Anne watched her go, relieved to have headed off that particular storm so successfully. Older children were so much easier to handle than babies.

However, as she watched her go, a few of Bessie's words tugged at her, " _You sent Richard away. You sent him away when I came to Court and George was born."_

So she had. She'd thought nothing of it at the time, nothing other than that she didn't want to subject Henry to the indignity of raising John's son alongside his own children. But perhaps it was time to rethink that, especially if it would ease Bessie's fears that she might be sent away now that Cecily was fulfilling the all-important role of heiress.

John might grumble that she was 'demoting' Richard in rank if he had to share a nursery with George and Bessie and Cecily, but what did she care for that? The Prince of Castile's prediction that she'd never have a daughter had held no water, and the people would love to see the whole royal family reunited; all the more so if it was at such a happy time as this.

And of course, Anne reminded herself, with Cecily in the cradle, Richard had no hope of being named her heir. John would recognise that. No doubt he'd spend even less energy worrying about his son than he had hitherto because of it. After all, why would the peacock Prince of Castile care for anyone who couldn't be of any use to him? If she brought Richard to Court, treated him like any one of the other children, then by the time John deigned to pay attention to Richard again, if indeed, he ever did, he'd love her. He'd be her son, not John's. That thought, above all, appealed to Anne highly.

"Stop," she scolded herself aloud, as she caught herself thinking that last, "That's unkind. You might not like John, but you know much of his character isn't his fault. He was ruined by his mother before you even met him. Why, in different circumstances, George might have been just as bad. It's only because Mother was focused on Mary that he isn't. Are you really going to hold an unbalanced childhood against the man, when you know in your heart, you always resented your own? It's one thing to be glad to be free of being married to him, but quite another to keep Richard from seeing him. You swore you'd never do that, remember? Are you going to keep that promise or not?"

Bessie skidded breathlessly back into the room, clutching her lute, and Anne promptly closed her mouth, but her internal monologue continued until she finally sighed in silent agreement with herself. It was time to prove she'd become a woman rather than the spiteful child John had always considered her. She wouldn't go so far as to offer her ex-husband an apartment at Court, but a house in London, so that he might see their son from time to time? Yes, that she could manage.

She settled Bessie on a stool next to her and reached for her own lute, but not before making a mental note, " _Next time I write to Monmouth, I must see about inviting Richard and his household back to Court. And see about passing Durham House over to John so he has a base in London too."_

* * *

George and Juana were breakfasting together when, all of a sudden, footsteps and loud, angry voices broke into their silent harmony.

They had time to do no more than exchange a startled look before a familiar voice rose above the hubbub.

"I must see Their Highnesses immediately!"

"Beatriz," Juana mouthed, and George nodded. They both knew what this meant. How could they not? Beatriz de Bobadilla, Marchioness of Moya, was Queen Isabella's closest friend. It was said she'd scarcely left the Queen's side for months. There was only one reason she would be here now.

For an instant, Juana reached across the table and gripped George's hand so hard it hurt.

"Are you with me?"

"Until Death do us part," George promised, invoking the words of their wedding mass in these, their last few private moments. In response, Juana jerked her head almost convulsively. She took a deep breath and then stood, wiping her mouth clean and her face blank almost simultaneously.

When Beatriz practically stormed in, therefore, Juana was able to greet her with all the poise befitting a new Queen of Spain.

"Madame de Moya," she said softly, extending a hand, "I am pleased to see you, although I wish it were in less bitter circumstances than these doubtless are."

The Marchioness stopped short in the face of Juana's cool poise. She stood for a few seconds, clearly struggling with her emotions. At last, however, she remembered the most critical of her duties. She sank like a stone into a silent curtsy, one hand extended to Juana. On her open palm lay two rings – Isabella's great sapphire and diamond coronation ring and a smaller silver one set with her personal seal – a ring of yokes and arrows encircling a castle and lion. The unspoken message was clear, even before everyone else in the room, bar George, sank to their knees as well.

"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away," Juana murmured, plucking her mother's coronation ring from Beatriz de Bobadilla's hand and sliding into on to her own. It sat snugly on her finger as though it had been made for her. For a few seconds, Juana simply gazed at it, as though she couldn't believe it was truly hers. Then she switched her gaze to the woman still bent in obeisance before her. She took in the Marchioness's red eyes; how elderly, drawn, pale and fragile she looked. Pity stirred in Juana's heart and she helped the elderly woman to her feet and placed her arms about her.

"Rise, Beatriz. I know better than anyone how truly and loyally you served my mother. I also know how much you grieve her passing. I know it and I thank you for it, for all of it. I grieve with you for the finest Queen Castile and Aragon have ever known. Moreover, I can only hope and pray that I will find among my ladies as faithful servant as my mother had in you. I shall count myself truly blessed if I do."

As the last words left her mouth, Juana stooped and brushed the older woman's cheek with her lips. George looked on in approval. Queen Isabella's death had been so expected for so long that Juana had taken it graciously, even calmly. Grace was usually all to the good in a Queen, but there were bound to be those who would try to spin Juana's poise to their own ends. There always were. They'd call her cold, unfeeling; suggest that she'd never really loved her mother. The moment she had just shared with the Marchioness, however, bonding with her over their shared relationship with the recently deceased Queen, would go a long way to combat those rumours.

"We'll have to move the court to Valladolid and send for the Infantas, especially Doňa Ana. As the new heiress, Her Highness ought to be here."

Juana's voice broke George out of his musings. He raised his head and their eyes met over Beatriz's shoulder, even as Juana assumed the mantle of responsibility that had, until so recently, still been her mother's, at least in name. Nothing cemented her mental shift so clearly for him as her referral to Ana as their heiress.

Calm as she would seem to outsiders, however, George could read Juana's private anguish at a glance, and so he went round behind her and, for a brief moment, let his fingers brush her shoulders, not caring what any who saw it might think. She let him, moving her hand up to meet his and then guiding it down so that she could link her arm through his as they left the room.

They left the room together arm in arm and, with that gesture, Juana was stating that, for the first time in five years, Spain had a King and Queen again, in practice, if not in name. Spain might only see George as her Prince Consort, at best, but she would always see him as her partner, the other half of her soul, no matter what her nobles thought.

For the first time in five years, Spain had a King and Queen again and they would face the future together, whatever it brought.

* * *

" _I regret to inform Your Highness that our dearly beloved mother, the right honourable and esteemed Queen Isabella, has died…"_

John had to read the words several times before he could take them in. Even once he had, he read them several more times, desperately hoping they would somehow magically change before his eyes.

When they did not, he felt his heart sink into his boots.

John was many things, but one thing he was not was a fool, at least not where his own interests were concerned. This letter was the death knell of all his hopes of ever being restored to his rightful place as Anne's Consort. Juana might at least have done him his due as her brother and written to him personally rather than through a scribe, but the letter was so formal it might almost as well have been written by an official. And if she couldn't even muster a shred of sisterly affection or concern for him over this, knowing how close he had once been to their mother, then frankly, a snowball would have to survive the flames of Hell before she came to his defence over his rights in England. Richard's were perhaps a different matter, since he was her nephew and a mere child, but she'd never defend his.

And this barely six weeks after Anne had birthed an apparently healthy daughter. Cecily, they'd named her. Cecily. The blind one. John thought it rather suited the child, born as she was out of her mother's foolish, blind affection for a man far below her station.

But the English dullards didn't see the irony in the girl's name, of course. They had celebrated and feasted their new Princess with all the glory they could muster. Which was nothing to the grandeur of Spain, of course. But no matter how reluctantly John did so, he had to admit the brat's birth stabilised her mother's position and, to those who would look for such signs, signified that perhaps, she had been right to seek her annulment after all. And with his mother's death, John himself had lost his greatest champion.

He ground his teeth, the thought as bitter as gall. For reasons he could not fathom and, despite everything Anne Howard had done that went against the law of nature, the Lord Almighty and the Virgin seemed to be smiling favour upon the chit.


	29. Roses XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all going to hate me for this chapter anyway, so let's just get it over with...

 

_March 1513_

The palace woke to the wet nurse's screams.

The sound rang through the stone halls, chilling all who heard it to the bone. Something was wrong; desperately wrong, with their precious Princess.

* * *

"What have you done? You fool, what have you done?" Anne screamed, shaking her daughter's wet nurse furiously.

"I haven't, Your Grace! Please! I swear on the Bible I haven't done anything! I fed Her Highness when she woke in the early hours, changed her clouts and then gave her to Mistress Paston to rock. Nothing else, I swear it! I swear it!"

The frantic interrogation reached Henry's ears long before he entered the nursery. Momentarily blocking his ears to it however, he strode straight past Anne and Mistress Luke, utterly focused on the cradle that stood in the middle of the room. Its occupant should have been squirming and gurgling, even howling her displeasure at the furore, yet she wasn't. Instead, she lay silent and still beneath her coverlet. Unnaturally silent and still.

Already knowing in his heart what he would feel, Henry reached down with a trembling finger to brush his daughter's cheek. It was cold to the touch.

Dread filled him and he snatched her up, rocking her, pressing her to his chest in an attempt to warm her lifeless skin.

"Come on, Cecily. Come on, darling. It's time to get up. Wake up for your Papa, hmm? Wake up, please! Cecily! Please!"

It was fruitless. He knew full well it was fruitless, but he couldn't stop himself from trying. The same way he knew Anne would have tried before she rounded on the maids in the way that she had.

"Uncle Henry?" A sleepy voice made him freeze and turn slowly to face the door. Bessie peeped around the door frame, fiery curls riotous with sleep, "What's going on? What's all the noise about? Why isn't Cecily crying? She hates loud noises."

Henry's heart clenched. His throat tightened, threatening to choke him. He could barely bring himself to speak, especially when George's darker head popped out from behind Bessie.

"I-et," the little boy lisped, "Hafta be i-et. Theththie sleeping."

Uncharacteristic tears burned behind Henry's eyelids at his little son's words.

"That's right," he managed at last, "That's right. What a good big brother you are, George."

He looked over his son's head at his niece, "Take George into your room and stay there. Aunt Anne and I will sort everything out, I promise."

Bessie would normally have protested at the fact that Uncle Henry hadn't answered a single one of her questions, but something in his voice told her that this wasn't the time. She nodded meekly, "Yes, Uncle Henry. Come on, George."

Henry watched them out of sight, then turned back to the scene nearer to him. Anne had finally given up on shaking any information out of Cecily's wet nurse and had turned her lashing tongue on to the baby's rocker.

"Did you truly sense nothing? How can that be? Healthy babies don't just die!"

"Your Majesty, please! There truly was nothing out of the ordinary. I beg Your Majesty to believe me! True, Her Highness fussed a little after Mistress Luke laid her down for me to rock, but the Princess always does that. Neither of us thought anything of it, not when…"

"Oh, so you ignored the first signs of my daughter's distress? Is that what I'm hearing you say, Mistress Paston?"

The colour was high in Anne's cheeks and her eyes were manic. The poor woman was trapped beneath her ire and shot Henry a pleading look. Answering it, though more because he feared for Anne's reputation than for the woman's safety, he came up behind Anne and slid his arms around her waist.

"Your Grace. Anne. Sweetheart. Please. This isn't helping. I feel your pain. Truly, I do. But this isn't getting us anywhere. Let me call for the physicians; let them examine Cecily. Because you're right, love. Healthy babies don't just die. There must be a reason for her death and we'll find it, I promise. Just let me call for the physicians."

Anne fought his hold for a few moments, then suddenly slumped against him.

"Do it," she hissed, voice raw, "Do it. But I don't care what they say. Cecily's household has cost England her future through their negligence and they will pay the price. I want everyone who was on duty last night gone from Court by sunset tomorrow or I'll see them hung, drawn and quartered for neglecting their Princess."

There was a stifled moan of protest at that from the servants in the room. Looking down at Anne's burning gaze as she leaned heavily against him, however, Henry knew there was nothing that could sway her from her course. Not now. She was in shock, desperate and angry. No power in either Heaven or Hell could have stopped her lashing out, let alone any earthly one.

Not that Henry wanted to. He too felt betrayed, numb and furious. If it turned out that any member of Cecily's household had had a hand in her death, even accidentally, then he wouldn't be trying to assuage Anne's rage. He'd tear the culprit apart himself and spare the country the cost of an execution.

* * *

"Sweetheart. Sweetheart, please. Let me in. I know you're grieving for Cecily. Believe me, I know. She was my daughter too. I miss her as much as you do. I had dreams for her too. Our daughter would have been the greatest Queen England had ever seen, if I'd had my way. But God's taken her. I don't pretend to know why, love. But I do know she's well looked after in the Virgin's train. And I know our people need to see you. They need to see us. Together. And we need to be together, because we're stronger together. This is a blow, darling, I'll not deny it, but it'll be a lighter one if we face it together. So let me in, please. Let me hold you and share your grief. Please."

Henry's broken pleading drifted through the heavy oaken door of Anne's rooms. Susan moved to respond, touched by the young man's obvious sincerity, but Anne forestalled her.

"Don't you dare open that door, Lady Lincoln."

Had Anne been in her right mind, she would never have used Susan's title so bitterly. Steeling herself not to flinch – her mother's death the previous autumn was still raw - Susan turned to face her mistress, sighing.

"You can't keep him out forever, My Lady. And I still don't understand why you do. He loves you, he wants to help you. Why won't you let him?"

A lengthy silence followed Susan's bold words as Anne struggled with herself. Finally, she burst out, "How can he help me? How can he understand what I'm feeling?"

"The Princess was His Highness's daughter too," Eliza offered softly, before Susan could respond. Anne swung round to face her, swollen eyes glinting dangerously.

"I don't deny that. And I don't deny he grieves her, in his way. Nor do I deny his feelings for me. But he knew Cecily for what? Eleven weeks? Twelve, maybe. And saw her for what, an hour a day? Two, perhaps, if we spent a particularly long time in the nursery that day? I carried that girl inside me for nine months. I felt her move almost before Henry even knew she was alive. I suffered heartburn for her when she lay in the wrong place. I knew her every mood intimately; felt her stretch my body with every inch she grew. How can Henry, however deep he believes his bond with her to have been, ever hope to compete with that?"

Anne paused for breath and then scoffed slightly, "If you believe he can, truly believe he can, then look me in the eye and tell me so to my face. I'll let him in in a heartbeat. Well?"

Eliza slid her eyes away as Anne raked her face with that unfathomable, piercing gaze of hers. Susan followed suit. There was nothing they could say. Anne had won this round. As ever, she had won.

Thus, as they always did, the Prince Consort's pleas went unanswered. Eventually, as he always did, he gave up and drifted away.

* * *

The physicians spent a full day and a night examining little Cecily's body, yet they found no explainable cause of death. Eventually, they had to give the investigation up as a thankless task and release the Princess's body for embalming so that she could be buried as befitted her rank. The eleven-week-old Princess was laid to rest with her Howard ancestresses in Framlingham chapel, with all the great and good of England attending. The Duchess of Suffolk acted as Chief Mourner, as she had for the late Queen Elizabeth. Her Highness's cousin the Duchess of Lancaster recited a psalm she had learnt especially for the occasion in uncharacteristically faultless Latin – the young Duchess was bright, but no eager scholar. The Prince Consort was the first to lay an offering on the heartbreakingly tiny coffin. Oh yes, all the great and good of England were there, save Her Highness's own mother.

Now, there was nothing especially untoward about Her Majesty's absence from the funeral. Queens didn't usually attend funerals, lest the occasion prompted the congregation to start wondering about their deaths and fearing for the future of the realm. What was more worrying, in this instance, were the rumours that the Queen, in a move eerily similar to her actions after the Duke of Ormond's death, had locked herself away in her rooms, refusing to admit any but her childhood friends. Even her Prince Consort was barred admittance, or so the gossip went.

At first, the talk was more or less sympathetic. The Queen was still young, after all, and she had a turbulent few years behind her. To lose a child, at any age, was a heavy blow, but all the more so when that child was a daughter, and the firstborn at that. It was hardly surprising Her Majesty had chosen to withdraw from public life for a bit to help her come to terms with the matter. Not after everything she'd been through.

But as the days stretched into weeks, even a month, the sympathy turned sour. For the Princess's death wasn't just a private matter. It deprived England of a stable future. The whole country was reeling in the void left by the girl they'd thought, even naively assumed, was going to be their future monarch. If ever they needed their young sovereign to lead them, they needed her now. And how could she lead them, if she was locked away behind the walls of Leicester Castle? With that in mind, people started to grumble and then, ominously, to mutter that Anne Howard was shirking her duty to her subjects in a way her mother Queen Elizabeth would never have done, indeed, never had.

* * *

"It's been over a month and she still won't so much as talk to me," Henry was pacing his rooms, almost snarling in exasperation.

"The Princess's death was hard on Her Majesty, brother," Mary Plantagenet protested weakly, alarmed at his fury, "You can't expect her just to put it behind her like it's nothing."

Henry's head snapped round to where she sat sewing in the window seat, "I know that, Mary. I'm not a fool! She thought she'd secured this country's future and now she hasn't. Of course it's going to be difficult for her. But, by God, Cecily was my daughter too! Does Anne not think I grieve the girl as deeply as she does? We ought to be mourning together. She ought to be letting me help her, not shutting me out!"

"But she is allowing you to help her," Mary retorted.

"How?!" Henry demanded, "If you truly believe that, sister, then tell me how."

Mary put down her sewing and looked up at her brother. He was red with anger; taut with it.

_"_ _Just like he always was whenever he threw a strop in our nursery in Richmond."_

As the thought popped into her head, Mary couldn't help but chuckle. She'd always been able to charm her older brother out of bad temper when they were children. He was acting in such a similar manner now…well, it was amusing to her to think that her older brother was still such a child that there was a chance the same mixture of cajolement and flattery might work on him now. Still, she had nothing to lose.

Slipping off the window seat, she went around behind her brother and snaked her arms about his waist, resting her head on his shoulder, "Her Majesty is only giving her grief such rein because she thinks, no, knows, that the country is in safe hands with you, dear brother," she purred.

It was almost laughable, how easily he was soothed. He spun around, catching her by the waist eagerly, "You think so?"

"But of course. Did Her Grace not name you her Prince Consort, the way her mother Queen Elizabeth did the Duke of Ormond? We both know she would never have honoured the Prince of Castile with the title of Prince Consort. Anne  _trusts_  you, brother. She trusts you to hold the country together for her. Goodness knows the Duke of Ormond did it often enough when Queen Elizabeth was ill or otherwise indisposed."

"Are you saying I should do the same?"

"The Queen would be so proud to know she'd married a leader," Mary paused, reaching up to twine her fingers through her brother's red-gold hair. "Anne  _trusts_ you, brother," she repeated, knowing her use of the Queen's given name would catch her brother's attention the way nothing else would, "She made you her Prince Consort. So  _be_  her Prince Consort. If she can't or won't lead the Court, then do it for her."

"You're right," Henry murmured, "You're right," he repeated more forcefully, "The people are grumbling. They need someone to look to in this time of uncertainty. I shall give it to them."

He unclasped her arms from his waist and kissed on the forehead, "Thank you, Mary. I knew I could rely on you."

Then he strode from the room. Mary watched him go, suddenly unable to stop a frisson of unease from travelling down her spine. She adored her brother, but she wasn't unaware of the fact that tact could not be counted among his greatest strengths. For him to go from angry to a bundle of determined energy like this…well, it rarely boded well. He was bound to make a whole host of impulsive decisions that he – and those around him – would most likely come to rue later.

She closed her eyes and winced.

"I should have kept my mouth shut," she groaned.


	30. XXIX: Roses XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter, but I'm not sure anyone else will!

"Your Highness is sure that this is what you want? To pack up the Court, at such short notice and move north? All the way north to Sandal Castle?" Lucy Vaughan stared incredulously at Henry, "Have you even mentioned this to Her Majesty?"

"Well, no..," Henry shuffled his feet a little, feeling like a child being scolded, before he remembered who he was and drew himself up, "Mistress Vaughan. I am your Prince Consort. If Her Majesty is either unable or unwilling to take her rightful place at our head, then surely it is up to me to provide the Court with the direction it currently lacks at this sad time?"

"Indeed, Your Highness, and I do not dispute that, but Your Grace must understand. To pack up the Court at all, let alone move it so far north as to Sandal Castle, is a massive undertaking…"

"You think I don't know that, Mistress Vaughan?" Henry snapped, "I've been in and out of royal households since I was a boy!"

"Then Your Grace will understand why I am loath to give the orders without Her Majesty's permission or at least consent."

Henry harrumphed in the face of Mistress Vaughan's cool dismissal of his plans. He looked out of the window, seeking inspiration…and found it. Taking a deep breath, he softened his voice.

"Forgive me, Madam. I should not have lost my temper. It was ungentlemanly of me. I'm afraid that I am just so worried for Her Majesty's state of mind that I know not what I do or say."

Mistress Vaughan's face gentled at his admission, "As are we all, Your Grace. As are we all."

"Now do you see why I want to take the Queen away from here, madam? If it was just a case of my wanting to lead the Court in the Queen's stead, you would be right in that I could do that just as easily from here in Leicester as I could from Sandal Castle. Indeed, it might even be easier, given that Leicester is more central within the realm. But I'm also thinking of Her Majesty. Princess Cecily is the first child the Queen has lost, and I hope and pray that Her Highness will remain the only one. But Leicester will forever be tarred by the memories of her death, both for myself and for Her Majesty. It will be forever be our castle of care. Nothing and no one will be able to change that. Which is why I think that moving the Court on would be beneficial to Her Grace. It would take her away from the fearful place where the unthinkable happened."

There was a long silence following Henry's words. Mistress Vaughan gazed at him steadily over steepled fingers as she mulled over his plea. At last, she nodded sharply.

"Very well, Your Grace. I'll not go so far as to say I'm happy about it, but you've convinced me. I'll give the orders and we'll move on as soon as we can. Just pray to God that Her Majesty accepts your decision and this doesn't come back to haunt us."

* * *

Anne woke to the jangle of harness and a hubbub of voices in the courtyard beneath her tower rooms. For a few moments, she lay, not truly aware of what she was hearing. It sounded as though the Court was preparing to move on. But it couldn't be. She hadn't given the orders. Nor would she. Leicester was the only castle her precious Cecily had ever known. It was the only place she had memories of her. She wouldn't leave those memories. Not yet, not while they were still so fresh. So how could it be that the Court was preparing to move on?

And then it crashed over her. Henry. Henry must have given the orders. Well. Didn't that just prove everything she'd been saying to Meg, Sybil, Susan and Eliza? Clearly he didn't understand the depth of her grief, for all he pretended he did. If he did, God, if he even half understood, he'd never dare try to move the Court on.

Anne was out of bed and calling for her ladies to dress her before she even realised what she was doing. Fury boiling in her veins, she stormed down to the courtyard.

The bustle froze at the sight of her, "Your Majesty."

"What is this? I don't believe I gave orders for the Court to move on."

Her voice was as hard and cold as marble. Her black eyes were icy as they raked the frozen crowd, seeking Henry. He was already mounted on his favourite black hunter, Leander, but, as their eyes locked, he swung himself down and moved through the parting throng towards her.

"You didn't, Your Grace. I did."

"Oh? On what grounds? On whose authority?"

"My own. I'm your Prince Consort, am I not?" They were looking at each other down a tunnel of people by now. Henry drew himself up to his full height and for a moment, Anne regretted she wasn't taller. He looked so golden, standing rigid in the spring sunshine that an outsider might have been forgiven for thinking that the power in their relationship lay with him and not with her.

That is, until she hissed at him, in a voice dripping with venom, "Indeed you are, My Lord. But that's all you'll ever be. My  _Consort_. It does not behove you to try to lead in my stead. Now, I suggest you abandon whatever foolish scheme told you this was a good idea and order everyone and everything back inside. Immediately."

She spun on her heel and was about to go back indoors, satisfied that she had made her point when Henry, for the first time in their marriage, publicly defied her.

"No."

"I beg your pardon, My Lord Southampton?" Anne snarled lowly, using Henry's lesser title to belittle him, as her mother had often done to her father when she'd been angry with him. Unfortunately for her, like her father, Henry refused to back down.

"You heard me, Your Grace. I said no."

Anne swung round to face him, incredulous at his audacity. Before she could retort, however, Henry spoke over her, "You say you're the Queen; that I'm no more than your Consort. That may be true, but by the Virgin, I've done more to lead the country recently than you have."

Anne's jaw dropped, "How  _dare_  you?!"

"You know it's true. You know I've been out there, holding meetings in your name, sharing the country's grief for our Cecily, whilst you hole yourself up in your rooms, lost in daydreams of a future that can never be. When are you going to wake up? When are you going to start being the Queen that England needs you to be?"

For a moment, Anne simply stared at Henry, unable to process, much less believe what she was hearing. They were only about a dozen strides apart, but in that instant, it might as well have been a thousand leagues, so great was the gulf between them.

A heartbeat later, the courtyard echoed with the sound of flesh on flesh as she crossed the space between them and slapped him with all the strength she could muster.

"Cecily was my daughter!" she screamed, "My daughter! If I don't grieve her, who will?! Not you, clearly!"

Her breast was heaving and she suddenly recoiled from him as though he'd burnt her, struggling to regain her self-control. When she spoke again, her voice was as smooth and frozen as an icicle.

"But then, perhaps I'm doing you an injustice. Perhaps you do grieve Cecily after all. Perhaps you grieve her even more than I do and your excessive grief is clouding your judgement this morning. Get back inside and we'll speak no more of this foolish plan of yours to abandon our daughter."

"Cecily is dead, Anne!" Henry spat, "I cannot abandon her, she is not here to abandon! And I will not come back inside! For what? So that you can continue to shun me, at a time when we should be standing together more than ever? No. I'm sick to death of being pushed away and belittled when all I want to do is help you. I'm through with pandering to your self-indulgent grief. You can stay here, if you truly wish it, but I've given orders to have the children sent to Richmond and I am leaving too. Send for me when you've come to your senses."

With that, Henry swung round and jerked his reins from the stable boy's hand, who, like every other courtier in the yard, was too stunned to see his monarchs arguing so fiercely and so openly, to do more than blink in response.

"Not the children. Please, Henry. Not the children. Leave me the children."

The begging in Anne's tone was so uncharacteristic of her that it brought Henry up short, even in the midst of his fury. He paused just long enough to give a sharp nod and flick a hand at the young Prince and Duchess's household to fall out of line before vaulting into the saddle. He snarled at his household knights so that they automatically formed up into a phalanx around him. Dipping his head to Anne in a frosty imitation of a bow, he spurred his horse forward.

The beast leapt into a canter from a standing start and before long, the group of riders was gone, invisible except for the cloud of dust they were kicking up behind them. Anne watched them go, too stunned to react despite herself. How had they got to this point? How had her marriage to Henry broken down so far, so fast, that they'd got to this point without her being able to do a thing about it?

* * *

The rain was lashing down, soaking the quartet of riders and their mounts to the skin, despite the cover of the trees they were sheltering under. The slight protection the copse offered, moreover, soon turned to a peril as the wind picked up and lightening flashed in the distance, followed by an ominous roll of thunder.

"Who thought hawking was a good idea this morning?" Tony Knivert grumbled, at the same time as Henry shouted above the howling wind, "That was lightening, we need to get out of these trees! Now!"

He dug his heels into his horse's sides, breaking into a half-canter in his urgency. The others followed, streaming out of the copse and surging forward, speeding up as soon as they had the space to give their horses their heads and fording a stream in full spate almost at a gallop.

There was a chapel on the opposite bank, a private gentry one if its small size and carved emblem above the door was anything to go by. Henry, William and Anthony would have shot past without a second glance, but their fourth companion, Algernon Percy drew rein so sharply that his horse whinnied, half-reared and almost fell.

"Algernon, what are you doing, man?! We need to keep going until we get out of this storm!"

It was Will who roared the question, but it was mirrored in the others' disbelieving glances.

Algernon, however, paid them no heed, studying the emblem through the pouring rain, screwing up his eyes in order to see, until he was certain.

"I know where we are!" he bellowed, wrenching his mount around, "This is Rose land. Sir Christopher fought with my father in Scotland, they'll not turn us away on a night like this!"

"Then what in God's name are you waiting for? Lead us there, man!"

Henry's reply was almost whipped away by the wind, but no words were really necessary. Algernon now in the lead, the four of them spurred their jaded mounts to even greater speeds and were soon thundering up the sweeping drive of Thornhill manor, the Rose family seat.

Even as they drew rein, lightening flashed overhead. Algernon started for the door, preparing to knock, but Lady Rose must have been forewarned of their arrival – though how, in weather like this, none of them could imagine - for, as they fought to calm their spooked horses, the heavy oaken door was flung open and she and her husband, Sir Christopher, were hurrying over to them, bobbing hasty obeisances.

"Your Highness! Forgive us, this is a shamefully scant welcome! We didn't expect -"

"Nonsense, Lady Rose," Henry retorted, half-shouting to be heard above the wind, even as he bent and kissed his unexpected hostess's hand with all the gallantry he could muster, given the circumstances, "The fault is ours. We ought to have sent ahead, but with this storm…"

"Of course, of course. You do us honour by choosing to rest here, Your Grace. Come inside and dry off at once. The grooms will see to your horses."

Lady Rose bustled in ahead of them, evidently a cheerful and eminently practical woman. Henry followed, waving a hand at his companions as soon as they were inside and could speak at more reasonable levels, "Allow me to introduce Sir Anthony Knivert, my cousin, Sir William Plantagenet and Sir Algernon Percy."

Sir Christopher's gaze lit up at this, "Why, Sir Algernon, you wouldn't be Sir Thomas Stanley's son, would you? I fought with your father in Scotland before he ever married your mother, the great Lady Northumberland as she was."

"Indeed I am, Sir," Algernon dipped his head, "My father has many a cherished memory of fighting the Scottish ruffians in the borders with you. It's how I knew the Rose family would never be so disreputable as to turn us away in weather like this."

They had reached the solar by then, and so Sir Christopher's reply was lost in the rush to find heated towels and a suitable place by the fire. It was whilst they were engaged in this latter activity that a flurry of movement on the corner of the stairs to their left caught Henry's eye. He paused in his brisk towelling of his hair – he hadn't become so proud as to not be able to dry himself when speed was of the essence - and looked up.

He caught his breath. Descending the stairs was a vision of beauty. She was tall, with clouds of strawberry blonde hair drifting well past her shoulders. It wasn't unlike his younger sister Mary's, with its unruly waves that stubbornly escaped the confines of her hood, but it was several shades lighter. Her waist was so tiny that even that this distance, Henry knew – just knew - he'd be able to encircle it with both hands. She was carrying a psalter, clearly either just on her way to or from her devotions. At this distance, he couldn't tell what colour her eyes were, but her face promised to be warm, if not pleasingly round.

"Your Grace? Your Grace?" Lady Rose was asking him a question, but he hardly heard her, so entranced was he by the girl on the stairs behind her. Puzzled by his lack of response, she turned and saw at once what he was gazing at.

"Ah, I see Your Grace has spotted my elder daughter, Sarah. Sarah, dear, as you can see, we have guests. Come and meet His Highness."

Sarah did her mother's bidding, answering the call by coming down the rest of the stairs. Henry just had time to note that her eyes were an unusual mixture of grey and blue that somehow managed to be both clear and forthright and yet inviting before she dropped her gaze demurely and swept to the floor in an elegant curtsy.

"Your Grace. You honour my family and our home with your presence."

Her voice was gentle, far gentler than anything Henry had heard for years. More than that, something in the way Sarah behaved and held herself, the way she had bent the knee to him so automatically, as if she would never dream of questioning that it was his due, touched Henry's gallantry. She seemed so quiet, so unassuming, so innocent. And that, after so many years at Court, was refreshing. Extending a hand, he helped her up.

"No, Mistress Sarah," he rebuked her gently, "The honour is mine. If I had known that Thornhill hid such beauties behind its walls, I would have come north a lot sooner."

It was nothing more than light flirtation of the kind that was almost as natural to him as breathing. No girl accustomed to the ways of Court would have reacted, or even thought twice about it. Yet Sarah's cheeks coloured lightly and she couldn't suppress a breathy chuckle as she went to withdraw her hand from his.

Without thinking, Henry tightened his grip, "No, Mistress Sarah," he said easily, "You shall not do that. For I have decided that I wish you to lead me in to dine tonight."

Sarah dropped to the floor again at his words, "As you wish, Your Grace."

Henry found himself looking down upon her bent head for the second time in as many minutes. As he did so, he couldn't help the thought that popped into his head.

_My God. This girl must be the absolute antithesis of Anne."_


	31. XXX: Roses XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost turned this into two chapters, but decided it was better to deal with Anne and Henry's estrangement in one go... Or most of it, anyway! And yes, I realise I've changed Cecily's burial place. Leicester was better for later in the story than Framlingham. I'll go back and edit the other chapter some other time... Enjoy!

"Chess, brother?" Margaret Drummond asked, striding into her brother's private chambers and proffering the ebony and ivory-inlaid board. It was a mark of how high she stood in her brother's favour that she neither knocked nor was announced. Indeed, the guards barely even bothered raising an eyebrow at her casual behaviour towards their sovereign lord.

James turned at the sound of her voice and she sketched a curtsy as he came towards her.

"Oughtn't you to be with your mistress, Maggie?" he frowned, but his tone was light and Margaret knew he didn't care all that much. She shrugged.

"Her Grace won't miss me. I'm not one of her favourites. We both know that. Besides, it's far too long since I played. I'll be getting rusty for lack of practice soon."

"And you couldn't have found another lady to hone your skills against?"

"Why would I do that when my favourite brother is the worthiest opponent in all of Scotland?" Margaret widened her eyes, just slightly, and James struggled not to laugh despite himself.

"Come on then, you minx. One game. What's the wager?"

Margaret hesitated. What she really wanted was to have her brother lead her out to dance before his wife at the May Day banquet, but she knew he'd never agree to that. James could be irritatingly honourable at times. And then there was the small matter of the fact that dancing was one of the few pastimes he and his wife shared a mutual enjoyment in.

At last, giving up on her secret desire, she spread her hands, "That new grey you've bought from Burgundy. I like the look of him."

James raised an eyebrow, "You ask for high stakes, Maggie."

"Only because I'm confident," she flashed back and this time he did bellow with laughter. "Very well. Let's see if your confidence is warranted, shall we?"

They settled themselves in the window embrasure with the board between them. Matching russet heads bowed, they concentrated fiercely on the game for a few minutes, before Margaret eventually broke the silence that had stretched between them, "Have you heard the latest from England? It seems Queen Anne and her Consort aren't quite as happy as they once were."

"That's an understatement," James muttered tartly, before exhaling, "Poor Queen Anne. I really hoped she'd have a happier time of it now that she was free of her Spanish marriage. It appears the fates think differently."

"Hmm…" Margaret paused, wondering how best to frame her next query, "But don't you ever want to do the same?"

"The same?" James looked nonplussed and Margaret cut him an impatient look across the chessboard as she moved her Queen to take his rook.

"Brother. I might be young, but I'm not blind. Or stupid, for that matter. Your marriage to the Duchess is not a happy one. Don't tell me you've never dreamed of separating your households, of leaving her behind while you progress through the country for a while."

"Margaret!" James snapped, "Mind your tongue! That's your mistress you're talking about!"

Margaret bowed her head, seemingly contrite, but at the same time, arched her eyebrows a little. James's vehemence spoke for itself, really.

Sure enough, before long, James reached out to toy with the discarded rook, his turmoil clear in his eyes, for all his face was perfectly blank.

"Of course I have," he said lowly, "Of course I have. And I've wondered more than once whether I shouldn't have sent Mary's English household home as soon as she was used to Edinburgh. They coddle her so much, particularly Lady Guilford. But Mary was so young when she arrived. She was barely older than you are now. And the nobles already resented her for not being her sister…" James trailed off, sighing, "I did what I thought was best at the time. Besides, at the end of the day, Mary is my Consort and I promised I'd treat her honourably."

Somehow, Margaret sensed he meant a promise above and beyond the words of the wedding Mass.

"Who did you give your word to? Because if it was Queen Elizabeth, that Sassenach doesn't deserve your oath. Not after the way she slighted you in making you marry Lady Gloucester when you'd been promised the Princess of Wales since you were a child!"

The fire in Margaret's tone drew a wry chuckle from her older brother. Someone had been brought with a healthy pride in her connections to the House of Stewart. As was only right and proper, of course.

"No, as it happens," he said easily, sliding his knight across to take one of her pawns, "I promised Anne, not Elizabeth."

For a moment, the memory of that stolen afternoon, standing in the gallery of Bridewell's Chapel Royal, was so strong as to be almost overwhelming. The way Anne had stood so close to him that he could almost touch her, with one hand on the railing of the musicians' gallery. The way their hands had met as he'd broken protocol to reassure her. The way she'd grinned up at him, "I'm afraid once you wed my sister, you're stuck with her till death. I won't hear of anything else!" The way she'd leaned in to kiss him so close to the corner of his mouth.

" _It's just nice to know I'm not the only one who regrets what could have been."_

The words echoed round his head as though Anne had spoken them just moments ago and not several years. For an instant, he thought he could feel her lips ghosting over his skin. Unconsciously, he raised a hand to trace where their skin must have touched.

Margaret watched her brother's sudden absence with some surprise. She may not yet have experienced love herself, but she'd seen enough of it to recognise the signs. Unless she was very much mistaken, her older brother was pining for the Queen of England.

Squirrelling that information away for future use, she said nothing further, only waited for him to come back to himself so they could continue the game. Eventually he did, and immediately moved his bishop decisively, as if he'd only been considering his next move. Countering him with her Queen, Margaret smirked. She knew better.

* * *

The matter of a night's shelter with Lady Rose at Thornhill had somehow stretched into a week's stay. And then two. And then three. Oh, Henry's companions had returned to Sandal Castle, but he lingered. He lingered long past any plausible length of stay, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Not while the weather was unseasonably warm, even for May, and he could spend as much time as he liked outdoors, hunting and hawking to his heart's content in the beautiful Yorkshire countryside.

More often than not, he would do so in Mistress Sarah's company. She was a fine, eager rider, unafraid to attempt any jump or take any bird on her wrist and he liked that about her. Anyway, exploring the countryside was always more enjoyable in the company of someone who had been raised in it and knew it like the back of her hand. Or so he told himself anyway.

Sarah also liked the simpler pleasures in life, though. With her at his side, Henry rediscovered the beauty of late spring flowers, the magic of pausing to take in a sunset from the brow of a hill and exactly how much pleasure it gave him to play his lute with a pretty girl seated at his side to raise her voice in song.

Lady Rose, moreover, had enough tact to leave them be. If Sarah's duties as Henry's hostess began to supersede those of her place as the future Lady Rose, no one said anything. Not a murmur was heard as she and Henry began to take longer and longer rides in the long light evenings, as they gradually became more and more familiar with one another. Lady Rose and her younger daughter Ursula shouldered Sarah's burdens as well as their own without complaint and, if, from time to time, Sarah came back to the manor blushing prettily with laughter or with her hood askew and flowers woven into her tumbled hair, the Thornhill household knew better than to question it. They simply looked the other way.

And so the time passed until one night in early June, when, over the dinner table, Sir Christopher remarked, "Does Your Highness intend to stay with us through Midsummer?"

Jolted, Henry couldn't answer for a few moments. Was Midsummer that close already? He couldn't remember the last time time had flown by so happily.

"I – I hadn't thought on it, Sir Christopher," he answered at last, "If truth be told, I hadn't realised I'd stayed so long. I should see about moving on, really. Surely I've outstayed my welcome by now. Though I'll admit, it will pain me to leave such faultless, generous hospitality."

"Nonsense! Your Grace is welcome to stay as long as you wish and you know that, My Lord," Lady Rose denied. Sir Christopher held up a hand.

"I apologise. That wasn't at all what I meant to imply, Your Grace. It is only that Midsummer happens to be our lovely Sarah's birthday, and I was wondering if Your Grace would be around for it. We often hold a dance for her to mark her birth. No doubt we spoil her, but I suppose she is our eldest," Sir Christopher's voice was gruff, but his eyes were soft as he smiled across at Sarah, who, in the habit that had been started the very first night Henry had dined at Thornhill, sat demurely at their guest's right hand.

Henry followed his gaze and took Sarah's hand gently, "I'm not sure you could spoil Mistress Sarah if you tried, Sir Christopher. She's a true English flower. The Flower of the North, if I dare be so bold."

So saying, he kissed Sarah's hand tenderly, more tenderly than courtesy demanded. Sarah kept herself outwardly calm, but everyone could see the light in her eyes.

* * *

_"Dearest sister,_   
_… Would you do me the greatest of favours and send the rosary of Whitby jet that Mother left me in her will North? I didn't think I would need it when I left Court, but I stand corrected…"_

Mary scanned the brief lines of the penultimate paragraph of Henry's letter, brow furrowing in spite of herself. What did Henry want with that rosary? Oh, it wasn't that she doubted his faith – he might like his fine living, but the Holy Mother Church had always been important to him too – but she knew for a fact he'd packed at least a dozen rosaries when he left. Furthermore, the rosary in question was a delicate one, far more suited to a lady than a gentleman. It even had a tiny compartment hidden in the clasp for a portrait or a lovers' trinket or something. Mother had kept a braid of their hair in it, Mary knew. She'd seen it. Mary also knew only too well that Margaret had been surprised when Mother had left the jet rosary to Henry rather than one of them, her daughters.

She rolled her eyes as she rolled up the parchment. Her brother was very strange when he got certain ideas into his head. The way he was acting, one might even think he had a new sweetheart.

" _Perhaps he has."_

The thought popped into her head unbidden and she dismissed it instantly. Henry could be arrogant and overconfident, but even he wouldn't be so stupid as to betray the Queen with another woman. Would he?

* * *

The minstrels were playing a lively country dance to start the evening as Henry entered the hall. Sarah sat by her mother, a hint of pink in her cheeks betraying her glee at the evening, for all she kept her hands clasped in her lap as a good young woman in her late teens should.

To Henry, as he crossed the room to bow before her, one hand outstretched, she was the prettiest sight he had ever seen.

"Mistress Sarah," he greeted, freezing her before could jump up and curtsy to him.

"Not tonight," he whispered, "Let me bow to you tonight. For if it is your birthday, then you must be the Queen, at least here at Thornhill."

"That's treason, My Lord, and I want no part of it," she countered softly, but her eyes were dancing with merriment and when he held out his hand, saying, "Might I beg for the honour of this dance, Mistress Sarah?", she needed no second urging. With a glance at her mother, who nodded, she sprang up so that her skirts of Lincoln green brocade swung out around her, put her hand in his and let him lead her out to dance.

Later in the evening, she let him lead her out of the crowded, heated hall and stand with her in the portico, enjoying the cool bliss of the night breeze on their flushed skin.

"It's a beautiful night," she murmured, leaning against his arm without quite realising she was doing it.

"It is," Henry agreed, but he wasn't looking at the night.

He curled one hand around her arm instinctively and reached into his doublet pocket with the other. Withdrawing the rosary Mary had sent North, he turned to her, tipping her chin up his with two fingers.

"I've brought you something," he whispered, feeling that to speak any louder would somehow spoil the night's magic, "It's nothing really. Nothing worthy of you, at any rate. But I know what your faith means to you and I admire that. Someone whose prayers are so spotless deserves a beautiful rosary to pray them with, rather than that humble wooden thing you've been using."

So saying, he placed the rosary in her hand so that the black beads pooled against her fair skin, dusky and yet gleaming in the twilight.

Sarah gasped, "Your Highness! I – I -Your Grace says this gift is not worthy of me. It is I who am not worthy to possess something this beautiful. You shouldn't be giving me something like this, Your Highness."

She made to give it back, but Henry shook his head, pressing the beads more firmly into her hand, "Nonsense. It is mine to bestow as I wish. My mother left it to me in her will, instructing me to give it to the woman I deemed worthy. To the one who held my heart in the palm of her hand."

"You think I am that woman, Your Grace?"

"I don't think you are, Sarah. I know you are."

There was a long silence as Sarah digested the magnitude of those words. Tears welled in the corner of her eyes as she reached down and looped the rosary over her belt.

"Thank you, My Lord," she breathed at last, "I shall treasure this gift forever."

"Henry, please," Henry replied, "I want to hear you say my name as easily as you would any other, for the way you say it must and will be music to my ears."

Sarah blushed, but glanced up to meet his earnest gaze as she answered, "I shall think of you and pray for you every time I use this… Henry."

"I'm glad. For with prayers as shining as yours to aid my cause, how could I be anything other than certain of a place in Heaven?"

As the last word left his mouth, Henry reached out and gently took Sarah's chin between his fingers once more. He tipped her face up to his. Not a word passed between them. She smiled her consent to his unspoken question.

It wasn't the first time their lips had met, but it was the first time their kisses had truly meant something.

* * *

Anne slipped down the back stairs of Leicester Castle, for once utterly alone. Which was the way she wanted it. She didn't want anyone around. Not for this. It was the first time she was going to visit Cecily's grave. She'd heard they'd put the stone in yesterday and she wanted to see what it looked like. As a mother, rather than a Queen.

Dressed in a sombre dark grey gown, she put the hood of her cloak up, hiding her distinctive dark tresses and hurried into the stables. Crooning to her favourite mount, she woke the stable boy to saddle him, though swore the lad to secrecy – something he was only too quick to promise his Queen – and trotted out of the yard before anyone else even knew she'd been there.

It was early, so early that, even though it was midsummer, the sun hadn't fully risen. Which was just the way Anne wanted it. She liked the idea of seeing the dawn in with Cecily, as she'd done once or twice before when the little girl had still been alive and she'd heard her fussing in the night and called out sleepily for her to be brought to her.

She reached Leicester Cathedral without any trouble and hurried into the side chapel where the little girl had been laid to rest. Candles flickered on the altar, illuminating the gloom to the point where it was possible to see how things were progressing. The tomb was rapidly taking shape under the masons' skilful tools, Cecily's effigy smiling peacefully up at her mother as she sank to her knees.

"Hello, darling. I'm sorry I haven't been to visit you before now."

Anne trailed her hand over the cool, rounded marble cheek, lips half-quirking at the sight of the cherubs holding a crown over Cecily's head. That was a nice image. Her daughter was a Princess in the Virgin's train now, even if she wasn't one on Earth.

All too quickly, though, Anne's smile turned to tears. Stifling a sob, she leaned her head against the side of the half-finished tomb and wept as her heart broke afresh.

The bustle of the Cathedral staff arriving finally dragged Anne out of her stupor. Alarmed at the fact that she might be found here alone and so early, she quickly rose to her feet and pressed her lips to Cecily's marble brow.

"Goodbye, darling. I'll visit again soon."

She was about to leave when a roughly-hewn wooden figurine caught her eye. Curious, she stooped to examine it. It was an approximation of a lamb, with two tiny bits of metal tied around its neck. They chimed together as she picked up the toy, ringing out surprisingly loudly.

"You can't take that! I left that for the Princess!"

The voice behind her startled Anne and she whirled round. A young girl stood there, eyes blazing. A second later, however, as she realised who it was she was talking to, the child dropped into a curtsy, flushing scarlet.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty! I didn't know! I'm sorry! I shouldn't have spoken to Your Grace like that!"

"No, you shouldn't." To her surprise, however, Anne couldn't find it in her to be angry with the child. The trinket she held in her hand might not be of the finest craftsmanship in the world, but it was clearly much-loved. Why would she leave something like this beside a tomb that wasn't even hers? And to care enough about what happened to it to cry out like that in a place of prayer…it must really mean a lot to her. She crouched down beside the girl, holding out the lamb.

"You left this for Princess Cecily?"

The girl nodded, eyes wide and scared, "You're not angry, are you, Your Majesty? I only wanted to do something nice for Her Highness."

"Of course I'm not angry. It pleases me to know that we Howards are so loved our subjects are loyal to us even after we die," Anne straightened and held out her hand to help the girl up, "But I do want to know why. Why did you leave the toy for Her Highness? Isn't it yours?"

The girl shook her head, "It was my sister's. Uncle Jack made it for her when she was born. She loved it. I thought the Princess might like it too."

"Your sister's, was it?" Anne chuckled wryly, "Does she know you've taken it?"

"Oh, no, Your Highness. But she won't miss it. She's dead, like the Princess. She died last winter. So did my mother."

There was something profoundly moving about the young voice talking about death so matter-of-factly. In the face of the young girl's calm, Anne was ashamed to think of how she'd carried on over Cecily's death. She went very quiet and, sensing it, the little girl reached out and put a daring hand on her sleeve, "But it's all right, you see, because they're together. We buried them together in the churchyard and I know they're together in Heaven."

Tears pricked the corners of Anne's eyes, but, for the first time, she found the strength to truly smile through her tears, "Thank you, young lady. It was very kind of you to give the Princess your sister's toy. Might I ask your name?"

Before the little girl could reply, however, a male voice rang out brusquely in the nave of the main church.

"Alice! Where have you got to, you vixen?! You know I don't like being kept waiting."

"I've got to go," the child whispered, curtsying, "And I'm sure you do too, My Lady. But you should put that back on the Princess's tomb before you go. Her Highness will be missing it."

She turned to run, but Anne put out a hand, "Alice, wait. You still haven't told me why. Why, of all the graves in this church, did you choose the Princess's grave to put the toy on? Why didn't you put it on your sister's, if she loved it that much?"

Alice turned back towards her and smiled, "That's easy, Your Majesty. My sister has Mother to look after her in Heaven. The Princess doesn't have anyone, so I thought she might like a toy to play with instead. Besides, I liked the fact that Her Highness was called Cecily. You see, my sister was called Cecily too."

"Alice!" The call was angry now and the child didn't dare stay any longer. Anne let her go, turning the toy over and over in her hands.

Shame welled up in her as she stood there in the dim light of the chapel. What had she come to? It had been three months since Cecily died and she hadn't given a single thought to anything but her grief since. Not even to think of ordering a tribute to be laid on her precious little girl's grave. It was a sorry state of affairs when the humblest of Anne's subjects paid their Princess more practical honour than her own mother.

Well, that stopped immediately. She was a Howard for God's sake! What had her mother always taught her? Howards didn't look back. They didn't regret what could have been, they focused on the future. From now on, Anne would do the same. Oh, she'd honour Cecily all right, but she'd honour her by making England a country she would have been proud to be Heiress Apparent to.

Steeling herself, Anne turned to face the tomb once more, and crossed herself.

"I'll make you proud, my darling," she promised.

Then, turning on her heel, she left the chapel. As she went, she slipped the crude toy into the pocket of her gown, where its weight lay as a physical reminder of the promise she had just made.

* * *

"Bring me Lady Lancaster."

There was no little surprise at Anne's first order the morning after her visit to Cecily's tomb. Anne might have begged Henry to leave her the children when he left Court, but despite that, she'd barely seen them since, and for once, George more than Bessie. It appeared their bright and lively presence had been too much for her to bear, too stark a reminder of what she'd lost, particularly Lady Lancaster's. Now, however, for reasons her ladies couldn't fathom, for they hadn't been at Cecily's tomb with her, it was almost as if the past three months had never been. Anne opened her arms to Bessie with a laugh, "There's my best girl Bessie! Have you been good for Lady Warwick while I've been ill?" and ruffled the fiery curls as affectionately as she'd ever done.

It was only the Graces who dared to question Anne's sudden change of heart at all. Everyone else was simply too relieved to see her back to herself to risk upsetting her again. But even to Sybil, Anne was irritatingly nonchalant about how they were supposed to handle the matter of the past few months.

"We don't make a huge announcement of anything," she shrugged, "They all know Cecily's dead. If they want to think I fell ill with the grief, let them. What matters now is how we look to the future. I've a mind to progress through the Midlands for a bit. Let's go to Nottingham. The Prince Consort can come down from wherever he's hiding and join us there. And Richard too, once we're settled."

At that, Sybil exchanged a surprised look with Meg and Eliza. So. That planned extended visit was still going through, was it? That was unexpected. They hadn't thought Anne would want any more reminders of unhappy times in her life around her than she truly had to have at the moment. Whatever self-reflection Anne had been doing in the last few months, she'd clearly come to see the world quite differently to how she used to.

None of them said anything, however. They all knew better than to interrupt Anne when she was in full flow like this.

"I've a mind to have a new gown made for my entry into Nottingham, too. Cloth of silver studded with emeralds, I think. The people haven't seen me for a while. They deserve to see me at my best."

Pausing for breath, Anne glanced across at Bessie, who was playing with her dolls in the corner of the room, "And we'll have a cut down version of it made for the Duchess and dress Prince George in the same colours too."

The Graces caught their breath at the clarity of that statement, but their caution was overshadowed by Bessie's excitement, as, overhearing, she sprang up and bounded over to Anne, her eyes sparkling.

"Did you say I'll match you, Aunt Anne? Did you? Did you?"

"Would you like to?" Anne beamed down at the little girl, who was bubbling over with excitement. Bessie squealed in answer. Anne glanced over at the Graces.

"There you have it, ladies. Send for the seamstresses at once."

* * *

If the matching colours weren't enough to signify exactly who Anne considered to be the vital part of England's future, at least until she had a daughter of her own, her behaviour at the gates of Nottingham was clear enough that even a halfwit could have understood it.

Drawing rein within sight of the city gates, with Nottingham's Mayoress and alderwomen clustered about her, she called for George and Bessie to be brought to her. She kissed them both, then perched George on her saddle in front of her and shortened her horse's strides to match those of Bessie's pony.

Her entry into Nottingham, therefore, was pointedly reminiscent of many entries into cities that her mother had made with her, her older brother and her sister of Gloucester, whenever she, too, had considered it politic to remind England that the country had a living, breathing future.


	32. XXXI: Roses XVII

In many ways, Henry always knew his public estrangement from Anne couldn't – and wouldn't last forever. He was her Prince Consort, he belonged at her side. They both knew that.

Yet somehow, it was easy to forget it in the rugged beauty of the Yorkshire Dales, especially when he was at peace, the way he was here. Oh, he loved Anne and the fire that had crackled between them ever since they'd met, but, as he'd realised only since he'd been apart from her, he'd missed the peace and self-contentment that came with knowing he was secure in the affections of a woman, who, try as she might, had no power to hurt him. Not that Sarah ever would. If Anne lured him and drugged him with power and riches and fiery challenge, Sarah enticed him with sweetness, milk and honey.

Mistress Sarah Rose offered him a peace he'd never thought he'd know again or crave again, but it was one only all too easily shattered by the letter that reached him in the first days of July. It bore Anne's personal seal of a crowned griffin, so he knew what it was before he'd even opened it.

" _Send for me when you've come to your senses."_

The words resounded in his head, even the memory of them almost sickening him. How could he have said such a thing to her? How could he have been so bold towards his Queen, even consumed with anger and frustration and desire as he'd been then?

A second later, he shook his head, clearing it of the guilt. Someone had needed to give Anne a wake-up call, to try to snap her out of her misery, and he was the only one who was both willing and able to have done it. He had no reason to regret what he'd done. Nor should he be resenting his recall to Court. He ought to be relieved Anne had recovered her common sense at last.

Yet somehow, he was less pleased by the summons than he'd always thought he'd be. All of a sudden, he wasn't all that certain that he wanted to be back at Anne's side. Not if it meant losing the idyll he'd created with Sarah.

As though Sarah could sense he was thinking about her, she suddenly appeared behind him.

"Is everything all right, My Lord? You look pensive."

"Henry," he reminded her gently, turning towards her as she put a hand on his sleeve.

"Henry," she smiled, "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Sadly not, sweetheart. The Queen has called me back to her side. It seems she has deigned to reshoulder her duties at last."

Neither Henry nor Sarah could foresee the consequences of their next actions. If they had, they might have thought twice about them. As it was, however, Sarah kept her hand on Henry's sleeve as she fell to the ground in an impulsive curtsy.

"That is indeed sad news, Henry. I shall miss you hugely. But I would never have it said that a Rose of Thornhill prevented anyone from doing their duty to England. I am but the Queen's humble maidservant. If the Queen has need of you, then of course I must let you go, though it will break my heart to do so."

Henry's heart swelled as he looked down at Sarah's bent strawberry-blonde head. What a generous, noble-hearted girl she was. He doubted Anne would be so generous in her shoes.

"Come with me," he said suddenly, "Come with me to London. Anne's given me Chelsea for my own use. I'll set you up in a household there."

"Really?" Despite her best efforts, Sarah couldn't stop her eyes shining at the thought of riding for London at Henry's side.

"Of course! You don't think I'd abandon my rose, do you, after the golden summer we've just shared? No! Of course I wouldn't. You need only say the word and the house at Chelsea is yours, with half a dozen maids to wait on you hand and foot. Will you come?"

"Do you think I wouldn't?" Sarah's response was breathless and Henry laughed, pulling her up into a searing kiss.

"Thank you, love," he whispered against her hair, "You'll not regret this choice, I promise."

* * *

"Sarah, what do you think you're doing? You can't go south with His Grace!"

"Why not?" Sarah tossed her head, "I love him and he loves me. He promised he'd never abandon me!"

"He's married to the Queen, Sarah! That promise is not his to make! He won't be able to keep it, because he's already bound by oath to serve the Queen," Lady Rose was inches away from attempting to shake some sense into her eldest daughter. As if she sensed it, Sarah stepped back out of her reach.

"So? Aren't we all bound to serve Her Majesty, one way or another? And you can't try to pretend Their Graces have a happy marriage, Lady Mother. You can't! Would His Highness really have spent so much time here and with me if Their Highnesses had a happy marriage?"

Unfortunately for Lady Rose, she had no real answer to that. She grimaced.

"And when the Queen finds out? Have you considered that at all? Because Her Majesty will find out, there's no way she won't, and then what are you going to do? Her Grace won't be happy, you must know that."

Sarah shrugged, "Henry loves me. He gave me a rosary belonging to his late mother. He won't abandon me. I know he won't," Pausing, she met her mother's eye, setting her jaw, "In all honesty, I don't know why you're trying to stop me, Lady Mother. I'm of age and of sound mind. You've no reason to stop me going south to be with the man I love."

"What about your duties as the future Lady Rose of Thornhill, hmm? How are you going to learn to know your future tenants if you're not here?"

"I've grown up here. They know where their loyalties ought to lie. Besides, you and Ursula are still here. There will still be Roses at Thornhill, even if I go south. And you're forgetting one thing in your worry, Lady Mother. I have the love of the most powerful man in England. How can that not be good for our family?"

Sudden tears came to Sarah's eyes, " _Please,_  Lady Mother. I'll go south with Henry with or without your blessing, but I would rather do it with."

Lady Rose sighed inwardly, but she couldn't refuse her daughter. She remembered only too well what it was like to be young and in love for the first time. She gestured for Sarah to kneel and placed her hand on her head.

"May God go with you, my daughter. May He go with you and protect you if it all goes wrong. I'll be praying that it does not."

* * *

The Royal standard fluttered above Nottingham Castle as Henry approached it, his heart in his mouth despite himself. Anne had called him back to her side, yes, but she hadn't exactly done it tenderly. Her letter had been little more than a royal summons of the kind she'd have sent out to any of her noblewomen before Parliament met.

He hadn't refused it. He wasn't that foolish. But, just for an instant, he couldn't help but wonder how Anne would have taken it if he had. In all honesty, he doubted she would have shed that many tears. And if she had, they would have been tears of anger.

Sarah, on the other hand, had wept copiously, when he'd kissed her farewell that morning. He could still taste the salt that had been on her skin on his lips. He'd hated leaving her when it upset her that badly, but he couldn't exactly have her on his arm when he saw Anne for the first time in months. That would just be asking for trouble. And anyway, she'd be well looked after at Chelsea. He'd sent ahead the very day she'd agreed to go south with him, instructing the servants to regard her as they would any other mistress and to honour her as befitted the girl who held the heart of England's Prince Consort.

"Uncle Henry!"

Bessie's excited shriek broke into his musings and he looked up just in time to see her tear herself away from Lady Warwick and run down the steps into the inner bailey.

Her obvious delight at his appearance warmed Henry's heart. At least someone was pleased to see him. He flung himself from his horse and caught her, tossing her in the air for a moment.

" _Cariad!_  You've grown!"

"Well, you've been away for  _ages_ ," Bessie stressed, burrowing into him, "What took you away for so long? Aunt Anne needed you."

Henry's heart clenched. He hadn't considered this part of his homecoming. How was he meant to explain to his niece how badly Cecily's death had affected both himself and Anne and how it had damaged their marriage? She might be growing up, but part of her was still the little girl who saw them as the golden couple of Camelot, as Lancelot and Guinevere? How was he supposed to break her rosy vision of them?

"Ah, but Bessie, don't you remember? I asked Uncle Henry to go up to the Northern borders and make sure everything's in order up there, since Meg's ill and can't do it for me."

Anne's voice was silky smooth as she stepped into Henry's line of vision and, although everyone except the children knew her words were a lie, no one would ever have dared to call her out on it. Least of all Henry, who was filled with relief at her words. All he could do was nod as Anne went on, "I trust your journey was pleasant, my Lord?"

"Indeed, Madam. England is blossoming under the summer sun, but nowhere is that more true than here. I am honoured that you should greet me yourself."

"Very pretty," Anne chuckled, coming forward to allow him to kiss her hand before brushing his cheek with her lips, "Bessie wanted to watch for you and I saw no reason to deny her. Anyway, I've done a lot of thinking recently. It's time we let the past be the past and stopped perpetuating old errors, don't you think?"

"I quite agree," Henry nodded hastily, offering Anne his arm as he let Bessie slide to the ground and barely stopping himself from exhaling when she took it as though it was the most natural thing in the world, "It is good to be back with you."

"It is good to have you home again," Anne replied easily, "Let's go up to the nursery. George was too young to come out and wait with us, but I think you'll find he's grown too. He's a bonny little lad now."

"I look forward to seeing him," Henry beamed, relaxing as it dawned on him fully that Anne was determined to pretend that nothing had ever been amiss between them. Confidence filled him at that thought. Clearly, Anne still adored him if she was willing to let the past few months go so easily. She still loved him, so what had he been so worried about? She still loved him; everything would be fine. Everything.

* * *

When the letter inviting Richard to join the Court for a visit that September arrived at Monmouth Castle, Mistress Bowen could have sung aloud. Terrible as the loss of Princess Cecily had been, it seemed to have jolted the Queen awake. To have made her realise that she couldn't push her eldest son aside forever, because all children were precious, no matter what their gender or who their parents were. It was a shame it had taken something so drastic to make Her Majesty want to be a mother to young Richard, but at least she was doing it now. And when she met His Highness, she'd fall in love with him. How could she fail to, given how bright and handsome and spirited he was?

Why, Mistress Bowen would eat her hat if His Highness didn't have his mother wrapped around his little finger within a week. Goodness knows he'd charmed the hearts out of the Monmouth attendants that easily.

" _Yes,"_  Mistress Bowen murmured inwardly, " _Once we're at Court again, Her Majesty will soon see what a fine boy Richard is becoming. Once she's met him, she won't ever want to send him away again. We'll make sure of it."_

Grinning to herself, she scurried off to give the orders for Richard's household to start packing. Packing for a move to Court at last. Oh, how long she'd waited for this day! Now that it had come at last, she didn't want anything to spoil it!


	33. XXXII: Roses XVIII

Richard's household may have been delighted by the news that Anne was willing to have him back at Court at last, but Henry was by no means so thrilled. He couldn't help but gape at Anne across their shared dining table when she announced the Prince's impending arrival.

"But… Anne…"

"Richard's my son," she said tartly, cutting off his half-formed protest, "Is it truly so surprising that I should want to see him?"

"Of course not," Henry hastened to assure her, knowing it would only be to his detriment if he appeared to be  _too_ reluctant to welcome the young Marquis to Court. But for all that, he couldn't quite stifle his worry. Richard was Anne's son and that was what he was worried about. Richard might have been the frailer of the two boys, but he was still a good couple of years older than George. Anne would be able to do things with him that she couldn't do with their boy. And this came at a time when Anne still wasn't all that enamoured of George. Oh, she tried to hide it, but Henry knew her well enough to know. She was far warmer towards Bessie than she was George. Normally, that wasn't a problem; Bessie enjoyed including George in most things and Anne was happy enough to humour her. Besides, Henry himself had made peace with the fact that his wife, for whatever reason, preferred older children to babies, especially now that George was beginning to grow up.

But if Richard came to Court, what was to stop him claiming the lion's share of Anne's attention before George even had a chance to compete for it? Worse, Anne seemed eager for this visit. More eager than Henry had expected, given her previous reactions to her eldest son. What if she doted on the boy and expected him to do the same? He didn't think he could manage that. Not when there was a son of his own in the royal nursery.

As if Anne could read his thoughts, she took his hand, "Don't worry. I won't expect you to play Dickon's father. That would be unfair on you both, especially since he has one of his own. But I do expect you to help me make him welcome. He's a little boy, Henry, no more, no less. We shouldn't let our sour feelings towards his father affect how we treat Richard. That would be unchristian of us."

With surprising self-restraint, Henry refrained from voicing the thought that Anne had been doing exactly that for the past four and a half years. Instead, he simply inclined his head and squeezed her fingers lightly, "I'll play my part, you have my word."

He was gratified to see Anne unconsciously slump in relief at his words. So. She still sought his approval after all. That was good to know.

"Thank you," she breathed and he stood, came around the table and kissed her, "Anything for the Queen of my heart," he whispered, determinedly quashing the thought of Sarah that rose in his mind at those words.

* * *

"Now, Your Highness. Your mother will be very happy to see you. She won't be able to believe how much you've grown up, especially if you greet her as nicely as we've practised. I know it will seem strange being back with her at first, but she loves you. She loves you and she'll want to see you happy. Remember that, and be a good boy for her, won't you?"

Mistress Bowen fussed and fluttered about her charge, unable to hide her nerves. This was the first time the Prince would see his mother since the disastrous visit to paint the family portrait in the first months after Lord George was born. It was vital he make a good impression on Her Majesty.

Richard nodded, "Yes, Bo," he parroted obediently. Personally, he didn't really see what all the fuss was about, but Bo wanted this to go well and he wanted to make Bo happy, "I'll be good," he promised.

"Of course you will. You're my good little Prince, aren't you?" Mistress Bowen tugged one last time at the Prince's doublet, patted down his hair and then squeezed him to her for a moment, releasing him abruptly as the doors of the Audience Chamber swung open.

"I'm so proud of you," she whispered as she let him go, her heart in her mouth. She would have given anything to be allowed into the room with him, but the Duchess of Suffolk had made it only too clear that wasn't to be a possibility.

" _His Highness is a big boy now and he's visiting his mother the Queen. Your attendance will not be necessary, Mistress Bowen, though I commend you for your sense of duty."_

The assurance in the Duchess's tone rankled even in retrospect, but Mistress Bowen, too scared to do anything that might mar her charge's visit to Court before he'd even been received, hadn't dared argue. Thus, there was nothing she could do now but watch through the open doors with bated breath and hope nothing went wrong.

* * *

"His Highness, Prince Richard, Marquis of Monmouth and Montagu!"

Anne's head snapped up at her herald's cry and she froze in her seat, eyes trained on the lonely figure crossing the hall towards her.

She raked him up and down with her gaze, trying desperately to absorb the sight before her and match it up to the fractious toddler she remembered. Had his hair always been that curly? His shoulders that rounded? His eyes and cheeks that bright? His little mouth was set fiercely and, for a moment, Anne saw, if not herself, then at least her sister Mary in his look of deep concentration.

The memory of her sister as a child warmed her heart and her somewhat fixed smile widened and became more natural as Richard halted the requisite distance from the dais and sank to one knee in a bow that was so overly flamboyant for a boy of his age that he melted almost all the hearts in the room instantly.

"Madam. My Lady Mother. I am honoured and delighted to be back at Court and at your side at last."

Anne heard several of her ladies cooing at the address he had clearly been coached in and forced herself to her feet, still half-reeling at the change in him.

"Dickon, my darling. It is good to see you. It pleases me greatly to have you here."

Stepping down off the dais, she raised him up and embraced him, "You've grown so much! In fact, I think you're big enough to dine with me at the top table tonight. Does that sound like a good idea?"

Richard was so relieved that his greeting seemed to have gone down well that he barely realised that his mother was saying anything at all, never mind taking in what she was saying, but Bo had told him over and over again how important it was to please his mother, so when she looked at him expectantly and so clearly wanted him to agree…he nodded shyly and Anne clapped.

"That's settled, then. We shall have a banquet tonight and you shall be the guest of honour. "

She kissed his cheek, and, not knowing what else to do, Richard let her. Applause broke out around them and he nearly jumped, but remembered where he was just in time. He was in public and Princes weren't scared in public. Bo had taught him that. The Queen had probably sent him away when he was a baby because he'd got things wrong when he was scared. But he knew better now. He was a big boy now and he'd show Her Majesty he was. Then she wouldn't send him away again. Not that Richard really minded if she did, but Bo would. And he didn't want to upset Bo. He loved Bo, he wanted to make her happy, not sad.

* * *

Of course, anyone with an ounce of sense could have told Anne that letting a four-year-old boy stay up for a banquet and gorge himself on sweets before trying to take him to bed was a recipe for disaster. indeed, several people tried, but, desperate to win her son's affection by any means possible, she refused to listen. Which meant, of course, that by the time Anne finally took Richard back to his new rooms at Court, he was hopelessly overtired.

He was overtired and only too aware that his mother hadn't refused him a thing he'd asked for all evening. So, when she sent Bo away and heard his prayers herself, he decided to chance his luck and try to stay up a little bit longer.

As she drew the covers up around him and bent to kiss him goodnight, he whined and fidgeted, "I'm not sleepy, Can I have a story?"

Mistress Bowen would have seen straight through his delaying tactic, but not Anne. She was simply delighted that her eldest son seemed to have accepted her at last. She settled herself on the edge of his bed.

"Of course, Dickon. Which story would you like?"

"Robin Hood," The little voice was decided and gleeful and Anne smiled down at him as he wriggled in anticipation, "I think I can manage that."

Reaching out, she patted his hand and then began, "One day, Robin Hood was walking through Sherwood Forest when he heard hoof beats. A glance through the trees told him that a monk was riding…"

She never got any further. Richard's eyes went wide and he reddened with fury. What was his mother doing? This wasn't the Robin Hood story! Robin went to Nottingham in disguise and won the archery prize and tricked the Sheriff out of his wife as well! It didn't have a monk in it!

"No! NO! You're telling it wrong! You're telling it wrong!"

He burst into tears, unable to help himself. He turned his back on his mother and pummelled his pillows furiously.

Anne started back from her screaming son in shock, unable to fathom quite what had gone wrong. They'd been having such a wonderful time and now, out of the blue, this.

Tentatively, she reached out a hand to her son, "Come on, Dickon. There's no need for this, is there? I'm sorry I'm not telling the story you wanted. Do you think you can calm down enough to tell me which Robin Hood story you like best and we'll try again, hmm?"

She tried to rub his back, but he arched himself out of her reach.

"NO! I don't want you! I want Bo! BO!"

And then all of a sudden, Mistress Bowen was there, all cool efficiency and soothing nonsense. She swept Richard up into her arms.

"I apologise, Your Majesty. His Highness is merely tired. He's grateful for tonight, really. Why doesn't Your Grace say goodnight and leave the Prince to me for now? Things will be better between you in the morning, I'm sure."

Anne's heart sank. Things had suddenly taken a turn uncomfortably similar to many occasions in the Ludlow nursery, when, try as she might, nothing she could do had ever soothed her son. Mistress Bowen had stepped in then too. Resignedly, she nodded and stood, "Thank you, Mistress Bowen."

"Say goodnight to Her Majesty, Your Highness," Mistress Bowen cajoled, but Richard was having none of it. He kicked his heels and wailed, turning his head pointedly away from Anne's kiss, "Don't want to!" he pouted.

Mistress Bowen sighed apologetically, "I'm sorry, Madam. His Highness isn't usually like this."

"No, Mistress Bowen. It's not your fault. The banquet was probably just a bit much for him. As you say, things will be better in the morning."

Anne held herself together until she got back to her own rooms. It was only there, in the privacy afforded by kneeling before her pre-dieu, that she gave into her tears. Why was it that, every time she thought she'd made progress with Dickon, something soured it? Why couldn't she bond with him? Why?

* * *

"See, Mama! I'm riding! I'm riding!"

Richard's high voice rang out over the tiltyard and Anne beamed at the sound of it. It warmed her heart to hear her eldest son call out for her like that. She smiled proudly at him, "So you are, Dickon. And you're doing so well, too. You'll be a fine hunter soon."

Signalling to the groom who was leading Richard's pony around the yard to stop, she drew rein herself and gestured to the space on her saddle in front of her, "In fact, you're doing so well, do you want to come up here and sit on Cynthia with me? See what it's like on a big horse?"

Richard hesitated and looked to Mistress Bowen, who stood watching by the fence. Anne bit back her impatience. Dickon was four, almost five. Surely he was old enough not to have to run every decision past his nurse?

She needn't have worried, however. Eager to have her charge make a good impression on his mother, Mistress Bowen encouraged him, "Go on, Your Highness, there's a good boy. You'll see, it'll be fun being that high up."

Satisfied, Richard nodded, stretching out his arms for the groom to pick him up and settle him on his mother's much higher saddle.

The fates seemed to be conspiring against Anne's efforts to bond with her eldest son, however. Just as she touched her heels to her mount's sides, intending to nudge her forward into a walk or a jog, a flock of birds rose from a nearby tree, cawing loudly. Cynthia, a pretty but nervous grey, spooked and bolted.

Acting on instinct, Anne tightened her arm around Richard's middle to stop him from falling. Doing so, however, hampered her from restraining the horse.

They flew the length of the tiltyard and would have jumped the fence at the end of it, had Henry not reacted in time. Having seen Cynthia bolt out of the corner of his eye, he had wrenched his horse around immediately and set off in hot pursuit. Mounted on a much larger hunter, he had gained enough ground on them before they reached the fence to be able to snatch Cynthia's trailing rein and pull her up.

The damage was done, however. Scared witless, Richard was screaming his head off, screeching at such a pitch that he was in danger of breaking glass. Nor could Mistress Bowen restrain herself. For all she'd intended to encourage the Prince to bond with his mother, her protective instincts had kicked in at the first sign of danger. As soon as the trio had stopped, she flung the tiltyard gate open and raced over to them, snatching Richard from Anne's saddle and cradled him to her without so much as a by-your-leave.

Too stunned to protest, Anne let her, watching dazedly as the other woman crooned to the sobbing Prince, "It's all right, my Lord. It's all right. Bo's here. Bo's got you, you're safe. You're safe. I promise, you're safe now."

Before Anne knew it, the two were gone and another of her attempts to bond with her eldest son lay crumbled in the dust.

* * *

"I don't understand why she persists on doting on the boy. Surely she can see the Fates are against him ever bonding with him? He's an ungrateful brat who only wants his household. Besides, every time she tries something to appease him, it only goes wrong. You'd think she'd have learnt by now," Henry ranted, pacing up and down Chelsea's solar. Sarah glanced up from the book of poetry she was reading, or rather, skimming through while listening to Henry vent at the walls.

"The Queen's a mother like any other and Prince Richard is her eldest son. Surely you must see that her desire to bond with His Highness is only natural?" she said softly, "I think it's a shame it's going so badly."

Henry paused in his pacing and turned to look at her for a moment, "You've a more charitable heart than I have, Sarah. Perhaps I might be more inclined to see it your way if she wasn't neglecting our beautiful children into the bargain. Bessie and George adore her. They'd do anything to have her smile at them. But has she so much as bid them good morning since Richard came to Court? No, she hasn't."

Sarah doubted the full veracity of that statement, but knew better than to challenge her lover. She hummed sympathetically and went back to her book. Henry glared at the space behind her for a few moments and then sighed, flinging himself into the nearest chair.

"Forgive me," he murmured, "My frustrations with the Queen are my own. I shouldn't be taking them out on you."

"I'm glad to be able to help."

Henry smiled at Sarah's breathy response, "You're very good to me, my darling. Which reminds me. I have something for you."

Sarah looked up in surprise, eyes going wide, "What more can you give me, Henry? You've already spoiled me beyond my wildest dreams. This house, the maids, a stable full of horses…"

"Ah yes," Henry stopped her litany with a kiss, "But no household is truly complete without a dog, is it now?"

So saying, he signed to the servants to bring in the wriggling, panting ball of fluff that was his latest gift to Sarah.

"Oh! It's so cute!" Sarah reached out instinctively, gathering the puppy to her. It whined, licked her nose and then promptly fell asleep in her arms.

"He knows his mistress," Henry whispered and Sarah beamed.

"Thank you! I shall call him Galahad. I don't know why, but he looks like one to me."

"It's a fine name," Henry kissed her again and then nibbled playfully at her ear, "But how grateful are you really, Mistress Sarah? Have I won you completely yet? Are you mine, heart and soul?"

In answer, Sarah burrowed closer to him, but not before tipping her head back to meet his searing gaze with one of her own.

"You know the answer to that, Henry," she answered honestly, "Do you truly think I would have come south with you if I were not?"

Without another word, he reached down and swooped her, bridal style, into his arms. She squealed like a child, shifting Galahad in her hold so that she could wrap an arm around his neck.

"That's true," he murmured huskily, "You wouldn't have done. Which means I have been remiss. It's high time I rewarded your fidelity in the manner it best deserves."

If, despite the heavy undercurrent of desire in his voice, he had left Sarah in any doubt as to his meaning, the speed at which he mounted the stairs to Chelsea's main bedchamber soon clarified everything.

* * *

Mistress Bowen swept into Richard's bedchamber and twitched back the heavy drapes expertly.

"Rise and shine, Your Highness!" she said cheerfully, "Look, it's a beautiful day outside for September, and isn't that lucky? Her Majesty was talking about taking both you and little Lady Lancaster on a boat trip to Greenwich and the dockyards today. That will be fun, won't it?"

Richard didn't respond, just groaned and curled away from the light.

Mistress Bowen thought nothing of it at first. Richard had never been the easiest to wake, even as a baby. Unless he woke by himself, needing something, in which case he'd settle as soon his immediate need was dealt with, he would often fuss needlessly when he first woke. He liked his sleep too much to do anything else.

Chuckling under her breath, she went over to the bed and pulled back the covers, preparing to tickle him awake as she often did…and froze.

She could feel the heat radiating off his body before she'd got within six inches of his skin. His nose was running and the whites of his eyes were red, as was the skin around them. She turned him towards her, trying to get a better look, but he shrank away from the light, moaning and whimpering as though it was causing him physical pain.

Mistress Bowen's heart missed a beat. She was no physician, but even she could tell something wasn't right.

She sprang to her feet and wrenched open the door to Richard's outer rooms, shouting at the first maid she saw.

"Fetch a physician, now! The Prince is gravely ill!"


	34. Roses XIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all going to hate me for the Sarah bits, I know, but it's just too fun playing with her to leave them out...

"Lord, please. Not my son. I'll do anything; build any number of chantry chapels. Just please don't take my son. Not now, not so soon after Cecily. I don't think I could bear it."

Anne was on her knees, beseeching God for Richard's life with a fervency and a devotion she had never yet shown the boy himself.

A footstep sounded in the passage outside and she raised her head for a moment, but, when nothing came of it, she resumed her prayers, this time directing them to the Virgin depicted in the ornate plasterwork above her head, "Holy Mother Mary, I come to you now as a supplicating mother. You, above all others, know a mother's pain when their child is ill and may be on the brink of death. I beg you, grant my son Richard the strength he needs to fight this measles. He is an innocent child. What has he ever done that might mean he deserves to be snatched from this earth so soon? I beseech you, gracious Maria, leave him with me a while longer."

It was four days since Anne had been woken with the dreadful news that Richard had a raging fever and was sensitive to light. The physicians had examined him but had been unable to diagnose exactly what ailed him until this morning, when a horrible red-brown blotchy rash had appeared on his face, neck and torso.

" _Measles," Joanna Caerleon, Anne's chief Physician had pronounced gravely, "God help us all, it's measles."_

_Looking up at the bevy of ladies who clucked around her, she began issuing orders at speed, "Keep His Highness covered, I want to sweat that fever out. And get me some herbs. We'll need a poultice for that rash."_

_Without another word, she and her assistants had bolted the doors of Richard's rooms for fear of spreading the infection and prepared to join his household in doing battle for the Prince's life._

The news had been brought to Anne as she broke her fast that morning and, suddenly nauseous, she had pushed her plate away and gone like an arrow to her private chapel. She'd been kneeling before her altar ever since.

"I never should have brought Richard to Court," she murmured as the realisation hit her, "This visit has been ill-starred from the start. The banquet, trying to teach him to ride…None of it has gone as I expected it to. And now this. Dickon would never have caught this disease if he hadn't been at Court. There are so many people here…the miasmas must be overwhelming for his delicate health. I've been selfish, keeping him here with me when it's so bad for his health. Well, no more. No more, I swear it by the Holy Cross. As soon as he's well enough to travel, I'll send Dickon back to Conway. Or no, the Marches air would be bad for his health. He can go to Woodstock. That'll be far better for his health than the damp Marches."

Anne's new resolve crept over her, steeling her spine and forestalling her panic.

Not for a moment did she let herself consider the possibility that Richard might not survive. She'd buried one child already that year. She could not, would not, countenance losing another.

* * *

Several hundred miles North of Anne, in the bleak grandeur of Stirling Castle, Anne's sister Mary also found herself kneeling to the Virgin, beseeching her for the life of a child, although this one was as yet unborn.

"Hail Mary, full of grace…. Let this child be a girl, I beg you. A Duchess of Rothesay to make this country safe and a sister for Robert and Alexander. Moreover, let it be a girl to make the Scots respect me as they ought to and to win me James's love. He doesn't love me now, I know that, but if I give him a girl, he'll have to. He'll have to love the mother of his heiress. And when Anne names me her heiress one day soon, as she has to, now that little Cecily's dead, well, then I'll be bringing him England as well. How could he fail to love me after that? How could all of Scotland fail to love me? I'll be Mary of Albion then. I'll be Mary of Albion and my daughter Elizabeth will be the greatest Queen either England or Scotland has ever known. She'll be Elizabeth the Second of England and First of Scotland."

Mary tried the words out on her tongue, liking the sound of them. "Mary of Albion," in particular, had a ring to it, she thought.

Had Mary known that Margaret Drummond was eavesdropping on her as she knelt at her prayers, she might not have been so open about her desires, but she didn't. As for Margaret, she merely hummed silently to herself and wandered off.

Well, this was interesting. Who know the spoiled little Sassenach harboured such dark ambitions? Indeed, who knew she was deep and constant enough to harbour ambition at all, in fact?

Margaret swept purposefully out of Mary's apartments and made a beeline for her brother's, knowing none of the other ladies would dare stop her. Lady Guilford might have done, but the dragoness wasn't on duty this morning. Besides, surely it was only her sisterly duty to inform the King of this development? No doubt he'd be very intrigued to hear of the kind of ill-wishes the Duchess harboured towards her elder sister. Very intrigued indeed.

* * *

Mistress Bowen looked down at Prince Richard, biting the inside of her cheek, as he tossed in a feverish sleep. He looked so small, huddled under the heavy blankets and pouring sweat the way he was. It was hard to believe such a little thing would be able to find the strength to fight off a disease as virulent as this. True, his rash was drying up and fading, which Mistress Caerleon swore by all the Saints was a good sign, but his fever had yet to break, over a week since he'd first developed it. Mistress Bowen couldn't help but worry about that.

And then there was the fact that Her Majesty had yet to visit the sickroom, even for a moment. Oh, Her Grace sent messengers to see how her son did several times a day and it was said she spent hours at a time on her knees, praying for His Highness's recovery, but still. It didn't bode well for Her Majesty's maternal feelings towards her eldest child that she couldn't bring herself to look in upon him, even if only briefly, especially since rumour had it that she'd nursed little Lady Lancaster through an ague devotedly the previous winter, even though she'd been pregnant with the Princess Cecily at the time. Not to mention that gossip also ran that Her Majesty blamed the Prince's stay at Court for his illness; that she believed that the travel and the crowds of people had been detrimental to his already precarious health. It was whispered, the maids said, that, should the Prince recover, Her Grace would send him straight back to the country. Or even that, should he die, the Queen wouldn't grieve him. On the contrary, she'd be delighted to have him out of the way so that she could focus on building a new family with the Prince Consort with an entirely clear conscience.

Mistress Bowen didn't want to lend credence to such scurrilous talk, but in her darkest hours, sitting up with Richard, she couldn't help but wonder whether there wasn't at least a grain of truth to it. It wasn't as if Her Majesty's relationship with Prince Richard had run the smoothest course so far after all. Moreover, that the Prince Consort so obviously resented His Highness and feared that he might upstage his own son, Prince George, in their mother's affection was an open secret to all save the Queen. What if he started putting pressure on Her Majesty, or worse, thought it best to remove his son's closest rival altogether?

Suddenly, Mistress Bowen shook herself, horrified at the turn her thoughts had taken. What was she thinking? None of this would come to pass. For all the Prince Consort's possible faults, he was known to be a good and faithful Christian. He'd never countenance the killing of an innocent child, no matter who that child might happen to be. And the Lord wouldn't be so cruel as to take Prince Richard. Not when He'd already taken Princess Cecily. No. Richard would recover. He'd recover and the Queen would be grateful for it. She'd be so grateful, in fact, that it would be a fresh start between them both. Her Grace would make even more of an effort to get to know the son she'd so nearly lost and, this time, their bond would grow firm and strong, as it should between a mother and her son.

Thus reassured, Mistress Bowen turned back to the mumbling Richard, more determined than ever to do all she could to help the future she envisioned come to pass.

* * *

"What would you like for supper, My Lord?" Sarah asked, barely restraining a giggle as Henry trailed his fingers over the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck. The two of them stood in a close embrace in the shadow of Chelsea's doorway, she having descended from the solar to meet him, "You've ridden over from Court, you must be hungry."

"I am. Hungry for you," He made to kiss her, but she gasped and pulled back coyly.

"Henry!" She protested, "Let's at least get properly inside before you start ravishing me. And I am serious about asking what you want for supper."

"Venison then, if you've any in the larder," Henry groaned, aching for her as she gave him another lingering kiss despite her protests and then pulled out of his arms, leading him towards the stairs.

"I think we can stretch to that," Sarah chuckled.

As they began to mount the stairs, they passed Sarah's personal maid, Constance, who bobbed a curtsy, "Your Grace, Madam."

"Ah, Constance. Would you tell the kitchens His Grace wants venison for supper? And I'll have stewed duck, please."

Constance bobbed another curtsy, but her face twisted for a moment.

"Duck? Again, Mistress Rose?"

"Yes, Constance. Again. Now, if you would be so kind? We'll be in the solar."

Sarah swept up the stairs without another word, as though she'd been born to a far grander role than that of the Rose heiress and not just catapulted into it because of Henry's love for her. Her sudden flash of pride made Henry laugh.

"I do believe being my mistress suits you, Sarah," he teased, "You've become far more self-assured."

"Constance had no right to question me like that," Sarah retorted, flinging herself into a chair, "Especially not in front of you. If I want duck, I shall have it."

"As you should," Henry murmured, settling himself next to her and beginning to play idly with her hair, "It sounded like you might have had it a lot recently, thought, I have to say. Are there any ducks left on the river round here or do I need to have some imported?"

"I haven't eaten that many!" Sarah flushed, sour note in her humour vanishing as quickly as it had come, "But yes. I have found myself craving it recently."

There was something in the way she said it that made Henry look at her twice.

"Stand up a moment," he ordered, "Turn around for me."

Knowing what was going through his mind, Sarah did as she was told, quivering with excitement. Would he guess? Or would she have to tell him?

Henry peered searchingly at her as she spun slowly beneath his inspection. It was hard to tell beneath that padded stomacher of hers, but…

"I fancy you've grown a little stouter, darling," he whispered at last, half-questioningly, "Might there be a particular reason why?"

Sarah laughed and flashed him a smile so bright that it answered all his unspoken questions. In response, Henry reached up and pulled her down on to his lap. His hand curved around her still flat stomach, cradling it.

"Our little girl will be as beautiful as her mother," he breathed, before he captured her lips with his in a passionate kiss.

* * *

A few days later, Mary and Henry were sitting together, playing primero and teasing each other, when there was a knock at the door. Henry called out permission, and a page peeped round the door frame.

"Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but Master Catesby is outside. He says he has some documents for Your Grace to sign."

Mary was about to tease her brother about matters of state always intruding into his private life, when, to her surprise, he flushed, "Tell him to come back later. Now is not exactly convenient."

"Very good, My Lord," The page withdrew, but Henry's countenance didn't immediately relax back into joviality, which aroused Mary's curiosity. And then something hit her as she mused. Master Catesby was brother to Lady Catesby and one of the Plantagenet family lawyers, not one who served the Crown directly. Henry hadn't required his services since he'd married the Queen. Why would he, when there was a whole team of lawyers set aside for the royal family's use? Indeed, why was he using him now?

"What was that about, brother?" she inquired, trying – and failing – to keep a curious note out of her voice.

"Never you mind," Henry snapped reflexively, "It's private business of mine. It's not urgent, I'll deal with it later."

"But Henry," Mary wheedled. She could usually coax secrets out of her brother; he'd always confided in her over any of their other siblings, both in the nursery and then as they'd grown up.

"I said, never you mind!"

Mary physically recoiled at the fury in Henry's voice. He'd never got this angry with her before. Never. Margaret, yes, a dozen times at least in the last year alone, but not her. Not his little Maid Marian.

"I – Forgive me. I should know better than to meddle in things that do not concern me," She bowed her head sheepishly and widened her eyes in contrition. As he ever did, Henry forgave her instantly. Moreover, that, to him, was the end of the matter. Mary's mind, however, whirled.

Henry had been acting oddly ever since he'd come back from the North. He kept disappearing, almost unattended, for hours at a time, sometimes even overnight. He kept starting half-sentences and then shutting his mouth again, as though he was trying to talk to someone who wasn't there. And now this – using the Catesby family for some legal matter, when he had a whole team of lawyers who were primarily loyal to the Crown at his disposal. Something was definitely up, something her brother didn't want people to find out about.

In that moment, Mary resolved to find out what it was.

* * *

"But Your Majesty! The Prince is so enjoying being at Court! He's just settled properly after his illness. I beg you, please don't send His Highness away again!"

Mistress Bowen faced the Queen with tears in her eyes and pleading in her voice. Anne gritted her teeth at the sound of it, but hid her frustration behind a pleasant smile, reminding herself that while it might be irritating to have her express wishes so resisted by the woman who had charge of her son, in a way, she ought to be grateful that Richard had such loyal attendants about him.

"I have enjoyed having the Prince at Court, Mistress Bowen. It was good to spend some time with His Highness. Truly it was. But you have to understand. We had an unseasonably warm autumn and a city is a most noxious place in the heat. London all the more so due to its size. I fear that the Prince's health simply isn't strong enough to stand the strain. I always worried about it and now it is almost winter, with all the illness that that usually heralds and, His Grace is all the weaker as he recuperates? No, believe me, His Highness is safer in the country, much safer."

"That's as may be, but will His Highness have the company he needs? Prince Richard is a growing boy, Madam. He needs friends of his own age about him…and he needs his mother."

That last was out before Mistress Bowen could stop it. She flinched, expecting a reprimand, but Anne merely sighed, silently admitting, if only to herself, that Mistress Bowen was right. Richard was almost five. It was high time he started lessons. How had he grown so much?

Aloud, however, she only said, "I blame myself for the Prince's recent illness. I ought to have known better than to have His Grace brought to London. I am only grateful that God saw fit to spare His Highness from the full extent of my foolishness. Prince Richard must flee the miasmas of the city before he takes ill again. I almost lost him once, I dare not chance the same thing a second time. Not when my precious son's life is at risk. After all, do Scriptures not say, "Do not put the Lord your God to the test?"

Mistress Bowen wavered then, and Anne knew she had her. She smiled gently, "I knew I could rely on you to understand, Mistress Bowen. Besides, it's not as if Woodstock is the back of beyond. I'm sure His Highness will be very happy there."

An unspoken, "You will make sure of it," hung in the air between them for a moment, before Anne turned away, "That will be all, Mistress Bowen. I'll be up in the morning to say goodbye to Richard before you leave."

"Yes, Madam," Mistress Bowen curtsied and withdrew. It was only after the doors had swung shut behind her that she came to a two-fold realisation. One, the Queen had implied that Woodstock was relatively close to Court in comparison to Monmouth, yet had said nothing about the possibility of visiting His Highness. Two, although she'd bemoaned the unhealthy atmosphere of London in the heat, Her Grace had said nothing about preparing to send young Lady Lancaster and Lord George away. Which in turn meant…

"You fool, Isabel!" she snarled at herself as the situation crystallised in her mind, "Her Majesty has shunted the Prince off to the country and out of her life again, all under the guise of being a loving mother worried for her son's health and you stood by and let it happen! You stood by and let it happen even though you know full well what Her Grace is like! How could you fail His Highness like that? How could you?"

* * *

"Mistress Rose?"

The unfamiliar voice startled Sarah and she looked up from her sewing. A page in unmarked livery stood before her.

"Yes? What can I do for you?" she asked, laying aside the tiny smock she was embroidering.

"I was told to bring these over from Richmond, Madam."

So saying, the page dropped four sealed parchments into her lap and vanished, presumably to get a cup of ale from the kitchens, before Sarah could say another word. Confused, and not a little worried, she turned to the parchments in her lap, hoping they could provide her with some answers.

The top one looked to be handwritten, whereas the others had clearly been done by professional scribes, so she opened that one first, chuckling when she saw the double rose motif embedded in the sealing wax. It was from Henry. The double rose was his symbol for them. The Rose of March for his family and a rose for hers, tied together in a lovers' knot. Eager to hear from him, she broke the seal impatiently.

_My darling Sarah,_

_It's almost a fortnight now since you first told me you were with child and I still don't think I've found the words to tell you how happy the news makes me. Thus, I hope these gifts can speak for me._  
I wish I could be with you to see your happiness at receiving them for myself, but I fear my regular absences from Court might begin to be noticed if I don't take care. So don't look for me.  
Don't look for me, but know that you are mine and I am yours. Know that I think of you every hour of every day and that London would have to melt into the Thames before I would forsake you.  
I remain, as ever, your loving and humble servant,  
Henry.

Smiling, Sarah laid aside the letter, to read again at some later date; to read and cherish, and opened the first of the parchments. Her jaw dropped as she read it.

_"Appointment, on this, the thirteenth day of December in the Year of Our Lord MDXIII:of Mistress Sarah Rose to the stewardship of the manor of Chelsea with all the fees and incomes pertaining thereunto…. "_

Scarcely daring to believe her eyes, Sarah took a deep breath and blinked, half-expecting the words to vanish if she wasn't looking at them. They didn't.

_"Appointment, on this, the thirteenth day of December in the Year of Our Lord MDXIII: of Mistress Sarah Rose,to the stewardship of the manor of Havering-Le-Bowe with all the fees and incomes pertaining thereunto…. "_

And the third:

_"Grant, on this the thirteenth day of December in the Year of Our Lord MDXIII: To Mistress Sarah Rose, for the term of her natural life, from the tonnage and poundage levied at the port of Southampton, an annuity of one hundred marks per annum."_

By this point, tears were welling in her eyes. She let the parchments slip to the floor from nerveless fingers. She stood and paced the room, too full of adrenaline to stay seated, but her knees were weak with shock and, after a moment or two, she sank to the floor herself. She traced the grants with disbelieving fingers and felt hot tears begin to spill down her cheeks, even as she began to laugh uncontrollably, so that she sat on the floor of her solar, laughing and crying all at once. She couldn't believe what was happening. She knew Henry could be impulsively generous, but the papers she was holding went far beyond that. They made her a richer woman than she'd ever dreamed she'd be.


	35. XXXIV: Roses XX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think those of you who have been waiting for Henry/Sarah to get their comeuppance may be somewhat happier after this chapter. Thanks go to Robin4, who suggested the mention of another unfaithful consort as a way of hinting at what Henry's possible fate could be. Enjoy!

_Late August 1514_

"Margaret, I need a word with you," Mary Plantagenet followed her older sister into her rooms impatiently, but Margaret tried to wave her away, "Not now, Mary. I've got far too much to do before I see the Queen this evening."

"For God's sake, Margaret, I've been trying to chase you down since you came home!" Frustrated, Mary seized Margaret by the arm, not caring who saw her do it, and dragged the older woman into the privacy of the bedchamber.

"Mary, what on Earth…" Margaret protested, but Mary cut her off.

"We have a problem. Our brother has taken a mistress."

"What?!" Margaret blanched, "Are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be without actually asking him to his face. And what's more, it looks like it's been going on for months."

Margaret raised her eyebrows, waiting for Mary to elaborate. The younger woman spread her hands, "You know Henry occasionally asks me to do his expenses for him when I do the family ones while you're abroad?"

Margaret nodded tersely, tension clear in every line of her body.

"I was doing last quarter's a while ago and I realised he hadn't had any income from either Chelsea or Havering-Le-Bowe since before Christmas. I know audits can be slow or remiss, but that seemed particularly bad, so I did a bit of digging and I found these."

Mary flung several sheets of parchment on to the bed between them. Margaret stooped, intending to pick them up and skim over them, but her younger sister forestalled her, "Copies of documents dated St Lucy's Day last year granting the stewardships of both Chelsea and Havering to a Mistress Sarah Rose as well as a life annuity of 100 marks per annum from the tonnage and poundage levied at Southampton to the same Sarah Rose. Add that to the fact that Henry had three matching bracelets made last Twelfth Night. He gifted one to the Queen and the second to our niece Lady Lancaster. Guess who got the third?"

"Mistress Rose?" Margaret groaned. Mary nodded.

"It doesn't paint a pretty picture, does it?"

"That, my dear sister, is putting it mildly," Margaret picked up the parchments and skimmed them for herself, cursing long and loud when she saw the Catesby name affixed to them, "Of course he'd use the family lawyer! He wouldn't want to risk the Queen finding out about these gifts of his!"

She threw them down again, snarling, "Jesus! How does he think he's going to get away with this? Has he completely taken leave of his senses?"

She whirled on her heel and Mary gaped at her, "You're not going to turn him in, are you? He's our brother, Margaret!"

At her sister's anguished cry, Margaret froze. That had indeed been her gut reaction. After all, if she'd been the one to inform the Queen of her brother's indiscretions, no one would have dared imply that she'd known of them and done nothing. Mary's reaction, however, gave her pause. These warrants were months old and had the Plantagenet family lawyers' seal on them. It was too late to simply hand them over to the Queen and wash her hands of the matter. Questions would be asked as to why she hadn't spoken up sooner. Even with her frequent absences on diplomatic missions abroad, nine months was a long time to keep her silence. At best, questions might be asked about how effectively she administered her estates. At worst…

She sighed. "No," she said at last, "I'm not about to run to the Queen, sister. But I am going to find our brother. He has some questions to answer, don't you think? Would you like to come with me?"

* * *

Henry was just mounting up when Margaret and Mary reached the stable yard. Knowing what they knew now, it was suddenly easy to realise how frequent Henry's rides had been since they came back to London after the summer progress. Almost excessively so, even for him.

"Henry, wait a moment," Mary called, striding out to catch his eye.

Henry heard his younger sister's call and so rare was her unsolicited use of his first name, at least in a place where others perhaps not so loyal to their family could hear her, that he actually stopped in surprise.

"Mary," he greeted, smiling down at her. Unusually, she didn't return his grin. She caught his bridle, lowering her voice as she went on, "You're going to  _her_ , aren't you?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I was due to go riding with Tom FitzHerbert and our other cousins. I'm simply behind because matters of State delayed me. So, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me go. But whatever's troubling you, darling, because I can see something is, I promise we'll talk about it later. Come and find me when I get back, all right?"

Henry thought he'd negotiated his way out of that one smoothly and prepared to ride away, but both his sisters knew his tells well enough that they knew he was lying. Mary refused to let go of his bridle and tipped her head slightly.

"Oh, don't play coy with me, brother," Margaret hissed, striding over to join them, "We all know you know full well who Mary means. Your paramour. Sarah Rose."

The poison in Margaret's voice was unmistakeable. Caught, Henry glanced between his sisters and then decided to try to brazen the whole thing out.

"So what if I am? What does it matter to you?"

"What does it matter? Are you completely mad?! Of course it matters! You're married to the Queen; your every move is a matter of State! Have you even thought of what might happen if you insist on playing the lovesick fool for some jumped-up country girl?"

Henry raised an eyebrow, "Prince John had plenty of mistresses during his marriage to Anne. Why should I be any different?"

Margaret gritted her teeth. Much though she hated it, she couldn't deny the truth of Henry's words. "The situation was entirely different and you know it, " she bit out at last, "The Queen was a child when they wed. No one realistically expected Prince John to curb his desires for the full five years he would have had to wait before he could share Her Majesty's bed. You don't have that excuse. And say what you will about the Prince of Castile, he was a hell of a lot more discreet about his paramours than you're being."

"Really?" Henry arched an eyebrow, "You forget, I served the Queen at Ludlow years before you ever did. I could name half a dozen of the Prince's mistresses if you cared to ask me. His Highness was hardly discreet!"

"He never granted them stewardships!"

Margaret couldn't keep the words back. To her satisfaction, she saw Henry flinch back into the saddle with shock.

"How do you know about that?"

"Did you really think Catesby wouldn't tell me? When I'm the head of the family? The one who employs him?" Margaret spat the lie out, too angry to keep quiet any longer. She stared at her brother, the pieces falling into place in her head.

"My God, Henry, Did you honestly think you'd be able to pull this off? Did you think I'd keep quiet for love of you, that having powerful relatives would save you if the rumours ever came out? Well, let me tell you now, _Your Highness,_  it won't work. The Canmores never saved Prince Alexander when he was found in bed with Eva de Braose and I have no intention of saving you! It would would cost the family everything we've ever worked for and I'm not going to sit back and let you drag the Plantagenets of March and Richmond down with you! Christ, being forced into a monastery the way Prince Alexander was might do you some good. It might actually rid you of that blasted arrogance of yours!"

"I grant that the stewardships might turn out to be dangerous, but what else would you have me do, Lady March?!" Henry shrugged, surprisingly calm in the face of Margaret's invective, "Would you have me cast Sarah off with no way of supporting herself and our child? Would you have me ignore my own flesh and blood? That would be terribly unchristian of me, would it not?"

At his words, Margaret gave a little scream, "There's a child as well? Oh, for Christ's sake! You are completely out of your mind!"

"I don't see why. Matilda's a beautiful child. The strongest, healthiest baby I've ever seen, and that includes George and Cecily."

Henry paused, urging his mount sideways so that Mary was forced to let go of his bridle. He moved his heels towards the animal's sides and glanced down at his sisters, "Don't you see? Either of you? This proves I can father a healthy girl. All those worries about whether there was something wrong with Cecily that we just never knew? Those are gone now. Matilda's taken them away."

"And when she's older? How do you intend to raise her without Her Majesty finding out?" Margaret stepped forward, sneering, but Henry, tiring of the argument, suddenly kicked his horse forward so that she had to jump back out of the way or be run over. She wasn't beaten yet, however.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't run straight to the Queen," she challenged. Henry drew rein for a moment and just looked at her, blue eyes cold as glittering sapphires.

"You wouldn't dare," he said simply, "The affair's gone on for too long. She'd never believe you didn't know about it. There's no way you could avoid getting caught up in the backlash. As for Matilda, well, the Princess of Wales will need companions one day, will she not?"

With that, he spurred his horse away. His sisters exchanged horrified glances.

"You don't honestly think he'd try to have his natural daughter installed as one of her half-sister's companions, do you?" Mary breathed, unable to fathom her brother's audacity.

"At this point, I wouldn't put anything past him," Margaret snapped, "The worst of it is, he's right. I can't go to the Queen. Not when the affair has been going on long enough to produce a child. Her Majesty would want to know why I haven't told her sooner."

"But…Then, what do we do?"

Margaret was stalking back into the palace by now and Mary had to scurry to keep up with her longer strides.

"Nothing," Margaret growled, "There's nothing we can do. We'll just have to hope and pray that Her Majesty never finds out about the Rose girls' existence, although, between you and me, I think we have about a snowball's chance in Hell of that happening."

* * *

The cannon above Edinburgh Castle boomed, alerting James to the fact that he had a new child. Moments later, a breathless maid appeared at the door of his study.

"Your Grace!"

"Boy or girl?" he asked, turning over the grant he had just signed.

"A boy, Sire…but healthier and stronger than his brother Lord Robert was at birth, so the midwives say," the maid replied, a little shocked to see quite how coolly the King was taking the news.

"Pity. I'd hoped for a girl this time. Scotland could do with a Duchess of Rothesay in the cradle. Still, if the boy's healthy, that's something, I suppose," James paused, thinking for a moment, "David. We'll call him David, for my four times great Uncle and the reason the Crown came to the Stewarts. Have his name proclaimed to the people and tell the Duchess she's done well. Tell Her Grace I'll dine with her tonight, if she's not too tired, and meet my new son then. Thank you, Mistress Boyd."

Mistress Boyd, still new to Court, wondered to herself how the King could treat the birth of his child so matter-of-factly. Her mind reeled. Fortunately, she was not so new to Court as to question His Grace's behaviour.

"Yes, Sire."

She curtsied and withdrew. James watched her out of sight, then sighed and called for Lady Lennox. He may as well get the foreign announcements out of the way. There was bound to be an ugly scene with Mary that night if he didn't.

* * *

Mary had been bitterly disappointed by the birth of her third son. Didn't God understand that she needed a daughter? A daughter to secure her place as her sister's heiress as much as the throne of Scotland? A daughter would have made those arrogant Scots sit up and treat her with respect at last, the way they should have done from the moment she set foot across the border at Berwick. What good would a third son do her, especially if James didn't even bother to look in and see how she did after the birth? They were supposed to be partners! He was supposed to cherish her! He'd sworn he would in his wedding vows! But no, he'd left her alone. And he hadn't even done her the courtesy of letting her so much as suggest a name for their son. She'd wanted to call the boy Thomas, after her father, but no. James had decreed –  _decreed_  – that the boy had to be David, after some distant relative of his. God only knew who. David wasn't even a warrior's name like Robert and Alexander.

Well. She wasn't going to show James how much that had hurt. He thought of her as a child, did he? A child incapable of choosing so much as a name for her son by herself, was that it? Then let him see otherwise tonight.

That thought in mind, she kept her face blank as James was announced, merely putting out her hand and turning her face up for his kiss, "Husband. How nice of you to join me."

There. Her voice was steady. That was good.

James, for his part, was surprised and more than a little relieved to have Mary greet him so calmly. He'd been expecting tears and tantrums over the matter of David's name, so this calm, unnervingly icy though it might be, made a welcome change.

"My Lady," He bowed to her and kissed her cheek, "I trust you're as well as can be expected? Will you not show me our son?"

"His Highness is sleeping. I doubt the nurses would take kindly to having him disturbed," Mary replied, unable to stop a slight frown at that thought. It had long been a source of discontent to her that, for whatever reason, the Scottish nobles had somehow contrived to more or less cut her out of her sons' upbringing. Oh, not openly. They were too clever for that. They wouldn't have wanted James to disapprove of their actions towards their Duchess of Orkney, after all. As such, her visits to the nursery were tolerated. But James had been convinced to give the boys their own household at Stirling, which made such visits rarer than they might otherwise have been. And when they did happen, she always had the distinct impression that she was viewed as an intruder more than as the boys' mother. Four-year-old Alexander was the only one who was truly pleased to see her. Robert was too young to know who she was and, while the attendants paid her every outward respect, it was no more than that. Her suggestions for the nursery were never paid more than lip service and she knew it. It rankled.

What rankled more, however, was seeing James shrug his shoulders at the news that he couldn't see David and sit down, summoning a maid to bring their supper, as though it didn't matter to him in the slightest, "Well, they know best. Routine is good for babies, I'm told, and I imagine they can never start too early. We'd better not disturb him. I'm sure he'll wake soon enough."

"He's your son!" Mary wanted to scream, "The least you could do is show an interest in him!"

But, resolved on her new course of action, she said nothing, only turned her attention to the food a liveried maid was placing in front of her.

Her appetite had gone, however, and she couldn't bring herself to eat. Noticing it, James frowned at her.

"You ought to eat, Madam. You need to recover your strength from the birth."

Without a word, Mary picked up a mouthful and chewed it mechanically.

"Have you given any thought to our son's christening, Sire?" she asked, when she had swallowed.

At that, James managed a smile, "Yes. It'll take a few days to organise, so I thought perhaps this coming Sunday? I'll ask Archbishop Whitlaw to perform the ceremony and stand as godfather. And my sister Margaret can stand as godmother, I think. She's old enough to be able to take her duties seriously now."

"No."

The word was out of Mary's mouth before she could stop it. James frowned across the table at her.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. I said no. Margaret Drummond has never shown me so much as a modicum of respect. I won't reward her insolence by making her my son's godmother."

"Unfortunately, I don't see that you have a choice in the matter. Margaret is my beloved sister and if I say she'll be David's godmother, then she will be," James drew himself up, voice taut. Mary matched him inch for inch, her chin jutting stubbornly.

"If you try to make her David's godmother, I'll dismiss her from my household. I swear it. I won't have her around me. Or my sons. I won't have it, do you hear me?"

For a few moments, the two of them merely stared at one another. Finally, James threw down his napkin and got to his feet.

"I am sorry to hear it, My Lady. I was just beginning to think that Lord David's birth had made you more reasonable. I see now that I was mistaken. But as I say, I don't believe it is your choice to make. Dismiss Margaret from your household if you wish. I'll make alternative arrangements for her. I doubt any other Scottish lady would begrudge her a place in their train, not if it was to please me. But then again, Maggie's a woman now. Perhaps I should see about allowing her attendants of her own. She is my half-sister, after all."

"You wouldn't dare!" Mary gasped. James met her accusing gaze, stony-faced.

"Try me."

He strode from the room without so much as a farewell. Mary watched him go, a tide of fury welling in her. If Mama had still been alive, he'd never have dared speak to her like that!

She flung the nearest goblet at the space where James had just been, screaming.

Her rage woke her infant son, who set up angry howls of his own in the next room. Ignoring them, Mary buried her head in her arms and wept.

It was telling that, although a horde of nurses immediately gathered around the cradle, tutting amongst themselves and hushing the new-born Lord David, no one thought to comfort his mother. It wasn't her English ladies' turn to wait on her that night and as such, all the household thought to do was pull the door between the rooms shut so that her distress could no longer be heard where the baby was meant to be sleeping. Hence, Lord David was lulled back to sleep in minutes, whereas Mary simply sobbed.

Moreover, although she didn't realise it at the time, that night was also the final time she and James ever dined together in private.

* * *

Anne had taken advantage of the rare September warmth to be rowed back down the Thames to London after her day in the countryside. As they went past Chelsea, she saw Henry's barge tied up at the landing. Impulsively, she called to her bargeman, "Put in here, Sir. I've a mind to surprise my husband."

Mary Plantagenet stifled a gasp at the words, but knew there was nothing she could do or say without arousing suspicion. Heart in her mouth, she scrambled out of the barge and followed her mistress as she half-ran up the manicured lawns up to the house.

Ahead of Mary, Anne was laughing quietly to herself, "Henry loves to surprise me. I wonder how he'll take it when I turn the tables for a change?"

She couldn't believe he'd be anything other than delighted to see her. They'd been in such an affectionate mood with one another recently. They'd even cancelled one of the nights they'd planned to dine in state to spend more time together working on certain other matters of state.

The housekeeper started as she swept into the house, "Your Majesty! You do us an unexpected honour."

"I was rowing past and saw His Highness's barge at the landing stage so I thought to look in. Where will I find His Grace?"

"Up-Upstairs, My Lady Queen. Shall I – Shall I have Your Majesty announced?"

The housekeeper blanched and stumbled as she answered, but Anne was in too merry a mood to notice.

"No, no, there's no need. I'll go up and surprise him," Anne laughed again and whirled up the stairs, as giddy as a girl of barely sixteen.

The door at the end of the landing was ajar and she could hear Henry humming so she followed the sound. She ran along the landing, heart pounding delightedly at both her speed and the thought of surprising her beloved husband. As she reached the door, she leaned against the door frame, intending to wait for him to discover her there. But then she took in the scene before her. Her heart stopped.

Henry sat in the window embrasure, bobbing a tiny baby up and down in his arms. He was humming to her, stroking her head.

Anne was too far away to truly take in the child's features, but the look on Henry's face gave it away. He was gazing at the child as tenderly, as devotedly, as he'd ever gazed at Bessie or George or Cecily.

Heartsick, Anne longed to look away, yet found herself strangely compelled to keep watching Henry as he rocked his daughter.

"She knows her father."

A voice broke into Anne's horrified trance. As she watched, another woman walked across the room and leaned trustingly on Henry's shoulder, strawberry-blonde curls spilling forward and overshadowing her face, "That's the quietest I've seen her all day."

"What can I say, Sarah? Our little girl clearly has the best taste and sense of loyalty in the country," Henry teased and the woman – Sarah – laughed.

"As if she knows what loyalty is! She's only ten weeks old."

"Ah, but you'll teach her, won't you?" Henry leaned up to catch the other woman's lips with his, "I'd expect nothing less of my northern rose."

If Sarah made any reply, Anne didn't hear it. She was too busy trying not to cry out at the sight of Henry – her Henry – kissing another woman.

After what seemed an eternity, they broke apart and gazed down at their daughter with such mutual doting looks that Anne almost choked.

Half-blind with tears she refused to shed, she signed to the few ladies who had followed her upstairs and was about to turn away when Henry spoke again, "This little girl will want for nothing, I promise you, Sarah. I swear to you now, Matilda might never be an Empress, but I'll make her as rich as one."

It was a promise he could never keep and Sarah acknowledged that with a laugh, but Anne didn't hear it. All she heard was the little girl's name. Matilda.

"You named her Matilda? Matilda? That was to be our daughter's name, Henry! Ours!"

Without quite knowing how she'd got there, Anne found herself in the middle of the room, screaming at her husband. Henry and Sarah sprang apart as though they'd been burnt.

"Your Grace!" Sarah fell to the floor in a curtsy, but Anne barely glanced at her. She was too intent upon Henry. He took the opportunity to get Sarah out of the room.

"Sarah, leave us, please," he murmured, stroking a stray lock of hair out of her eyes involuntarily, "And perhaps you'd better take Matilda with you."

"Yes, My Lord," Terrified out of her wits, Sarah wasted no time in obeying. She snatched her daughter out of Henry's arms and scuttled out of the room.

Anne's ladies drew closer to their mistress, as though to lend her silent support, even Mary Plantagenet, who might have been forgiven for standing with her brother. Yet, despite that, when she raised her head to stare at Henry, Anne felt so hollow inside that she might as well have been the only person left in Christendom.

He returned her burning gaze coolly, unrepentant.

"Well?" she snarled at last, "Aren't you going to say anything?"

"What is there to say? We both know what you saw."

His matter-of-fact demeanour stunned Anne into silence for a moment. She'd expected protestations, explanations, fulsome apologies, yet she was getting none of them. She blinked, determined not to break again. Yet she did. She couldn't help herself. She had to know.

"Who is she?" she spat. "Your whore?"

"The Rose heiress. Mistress Sarah. Not that it really matters. She means nothing to me. Nothing. I only bedded her to prove to myself I was capable of siring a healthy daughter. Now that Matilda's here and that's no longer in doubt, I'll never see her again. I've no need to."

There was no hint of apology in his voice, no trace of regret. Anne couldn't believe how boldly he was talking, until she realised, looking at him, that he truly thought he could persuade her to play along if he agreed never to see the woman again. That, if he was bold and confident enough, he could brazen this out to the point where she would acquiesce and things could go back to the way they'd always been.

The sound of flesh on flesh rang through the room as she slapped him with all the strength she could muster.

"Don't lie to me. Don't you dare lie to me. Your brat is ten weeks old. I heard Mistress Rose say so herself. You haven't cast her mother off at all! And I saw the way you looked at that girl. I saw the way you kissed her. She doesn't mean nothing to you!"

"Sarah is the mother of my child! Of Bessie's cousin, George's sister. How else would you have me treat her?" Henry evaded the question. A note of protest did enter his voice, but it was petulant, far from calculated to soften Anne's heart.

She scoffed at him, "What? That little girl? The one you said you were going to make as rich as an Empress? How exactly do you intend to do that when every title in the country is in my gift?"

Henry shrugged, "You gave Bessie a title and she was just my niece. What's to stop you doing the same for my daughter? Matilda deserves to be brought up as more than a country heiress. She's George's sister! More to the point, if we don't have a daughter of our own, we could adopt Matilda. She could be our Princess of Wales. Sarah would never stop us. She's so loyal and she knows how important having a daughter is for us; for England."

Anne took a step back at his words, jaw dropping despite herself. Was he serious? Did he honestly think he could get away with that; with looking her in the eye and coolly suggesting that they adopt his love child as their own; that they raise her to the status of a Princess?

"You're mad!" She spat at last, "Utterly and completely mad. I'd never adopt Matilda; not if you begged me on your deathbed. She's a nobody like her mother and that's all she'll ever be!"

She swung on her heel, determined not to collapse in front of him. Fury had carried her through so far, but it wouldn't last much longer. She could feel it draining away, to be replaced with a terrifying sense of betrayal and listlessness.

At the door, however, she chanced another statement, though she didn't risk turning around.

"All I want to know is why," she said softly, bitterly, "I gave you everything, Henry. Everything. What could Sarah Rose possibly offer you that I couldn't?"

Her voice cracked on the last word and she hurried away, sweeping icily past Sarah when the younger woman tried to curtsy to her. That slut had already taken everything from her. Everything that mattered, at least. She wouldn't give her the satisfaction of having her tears as well.


	36. XXXVI: Roses XXI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know the last scene of this chapter and the beginning of the next is unlikely, but humour me. I've been dying to play with this pairing for years!

"You absolute idiot! Have you no sense at all? The Queen finds you in bed with another woman and you don't even think to apologise? Indeed, you have the gall to suggest that she treats your – your love child as her own daughter? Good God, brother, were you thinking at all?"

"She didn't find me in bed with her!"

"As good as! And you didn't even try to make things right! Christ, Henry, how stupid can you be?!" Margaret was spluttering, both incandescent and incoherent with fury. She was too angry to stay still, striding up and down her study with swift, sharp movements. It was the only way to stop herself striking her brother.

Henry shrugged, "I think Anne took it rather well, all things considered. She only slapped me once."

"Are you looking for a second?" Margaret snapped.

Henry opened his mouth to retort, but Margaret cut across him, "Actually, don't answer that. Save your breath. You'll need it for the fulsome apology you're going to start crafting the Queen."

"I'm not apologising to her! She drove me away! I did everything I could to keep her afloat after Cecily's death and she wouldn't take it! I wouldn't even have gone North in the first place if she'd been more reasonable!"

"Do you want the might of the Plantagenets behind you or not?" Margaret snarled bluntly, "Because the way you're going, you're going to lose it. Siblings or not, I am not throwing my power behind a falling horse."

"I don't need your help! I'm Prince Consort of England!"

"Her Grace annulled her first marriage for less than your blatant infidelity!"

"That marriage was never valid in the first place! Anne was five years underage when she was forced into those vows!"

Bluster though Henry might, however, Margaret knew she'd got through to him. The colour draining from his cheeks was proof of that. Capitalising on her victory, she threw open the door, dismissing him clearly enough without actually saying so.

"Think on it, brother. When you've calmed down, I'm sure you'll see that what I'm saying makes sense."

Henry growled under his breath and stalked from Margaret's rooms. How dare she summon him to her and chastise him like a green schoolboy? He should never have yielded to her request and gone to see her. Never.

Upon returning to his own rooms, however, he received a shock as rude as a bucket of cold water thrown over his head.

They were deserted.

For the first time in four years, his rooms were empty of hangers-on and attendants begging for favours.

They were deserted.

No.

He had been deserted.

_"_ _Anne annulled her first marriage for less."_

Margaret's words came back to him and, for the first time, a wave of panic and shame regarding his actions in recent months overtook him. He'd had no idea that the fact that his and Anne's marriage wasn't what it had once been was such common knowledge. People were clearly assuming his star was on the wane.

Well, he'd be damned if he'd go down without a fight.

Fetching a quill, ink and parchment, he began drafting an apology to Anne.

* * *

"Bessie, come with me, darling."

Anne entered the schoolroom and summoned her niece to her side without so much as knocking. Lady Warwick looked almost scandalised, but knew better than to protest as Bessie jumped up and ran to Anne's side, delighted, as ever, at the chance to have a break from her lessons. Studying would never be one of young Lady Lancaster's favourite pastimes.

Running a hand over Bessie's hair, Anne dropped a kiss on the crown of her head and noted just how tall the child was becoming. She'd need new gowns soon enough. And fine ones too. Let Henry see that she didn't dote on the girl for his sake, she did so because it pleased her to spend time with such a charming little girl.

That thought in mind, she looked up at Lady Warwick, "Fetch Lady Lancaster's fur cloak. She'll need it on the river."

"Are we going somewhere, Aunt Anne? Are we?" Bessie's eyes lit up and she hopped up and down in her excitement. Lady Warwick tutted warningly, but Anne caught her eye and shook her head. Bessie was wonderful the way she was. She'd never have her lose her impulsivity, at least not in private. She beamed down at Bessie.

"We are indeed, sweetheart. But I'm not telling you where. I want it to be a surprise. Come on."

She bundled Bessie into her cloak and called to Sybil, Susan and Eliza, "Ladies. Let's go."

The quintet swept out of Sheen without a backward glance.

* * *

The Tower loomed large above the Thames, overshadowing the September sun. Bessie glanced up at it and shivered, nestling into Anne's side.

"I don't like looking up at it like this. It's scary."

"Is it?" Anne asked, surprised at the little girl's admission. It was so long since she'd seen the Tower through a child's eyes that she'd forgotten how foreboding the Tower could seem from a lower vantage point. She put her arm around Bessie's shoulders and gave her a little squeeze, "I suppose it is. But you've nothing to worry about. The Tower's only scary if you've done something really, really bad - bad enough to be imprisoned in here - and you never will, will you?"

"No!" Bessie shook her head vehemently, wide-eyed, and Anne laughed, "Well then. As I said, you've nothing to worry about. Besides, the Tower also has lovely bits to it. You'll see."

She ushered Bessie up the gangplank of the barge and into the courtyard of the Tower, watching as Bessie's eyes went wide at the bustle that immediately surrounded them, in this, the only palace in London that she had never been in before. Anne led the girl to the Menagerie, thrilling inwardly as Bessie gasped over the leopards, elephants, lions and bears that were kept there.

The elephants were Bessie's favourite. True, their size startled her at first, but after her initial alarm, she soon became enchanted with the great, gentle beasts. Before long, she was chattering easily to one of them, patting its trunk and offering it pieces of apple out of her hand. She giggled as the animal took them from her open palm, much like any horse would.

"It tickles!" she laughed. Anne smiled at her, "I see you've made friends with Melisende. I used to visit her too, when I was a girl, before I moved to Wales."

"Did you?" Bessie's eyes widened. Anne nodded, "She was just a baby then. In fact, I named her. I named her after my favourite Queen, Melisende of Jerusalem."

"And I'm sure she still remembers you, Madam," the Elephant Keeper put in, "Elephants have a good memory, so they say."

"Really?" Anne murmured, surprised. She glanced at Bessie, "Shall we see if the Keeper's right?"

Bessie nodded eagerly, and, chuckling, Anne moved up to stand beside her. She put out a hand and Melisende leaned down, sniffing at her fingers. To her surprise, the great head bent, coming to rest against her, in much the same way the much younger elephant had done when she was just a child.

"She does remember me," she exclaimed.

"Of course she would! Who wouldn't remember you, Aunt Anne?" Bessie laughed, "And now she'll remember me too!"

"You'll have to come and visit her again soon, won't you?"

Bessie bobbed her head in agreement and Anne fed Melisende a second piece of apple before touching Bessie's shoulder, "Come on, darling. There's one more place I want to show you before I send you home."

"Are you not coming back with me?" Bessie pouted and Anne shook her head, "I'm combining business and pleasure, I'm afraid, darling. I need to speak to the Constable and the Master of the Mint anyway. But there's no point you staying here for that. It would just be dull for you. No, there's one more special room I want to show you and then you can go home on the royal barge on your own. I'm sure you're a big enough girl for that now, aren't you?"

Bessie's jaw dropped. Even at just nine, she knew what an honour Anne was granting her by letting her ride in the royal barge without her being present, "I'll be like a Princess!" she gasped.

Anne ruffled her hair, "So you will be. And why not? Aren't you my most beloved niece, my little Lady Lancaster?"

Before Bessie could reply, she swept her off to the treasury. As she'd expected, the young girl's eyes lit up at the piles and piles of jewels gleaming in the torchlight.

"Oh, Aunt Anne, they're beautiful!" she exhaled, bolting off before Anne could stop her. Not that Anne tried very hard. She loved watching the little girl's magpie-like excitement as she dashed from trinket to trinket, picking up whatever piece caught her eye, only to discard it a moment later as something else interested her more. Not wishing to rush her, Anne drifted off as she watched her, half-planning the discussion she would have with the Master of the Mint if she had time.

"Aunt Anne?" Bessie called her back to herself, as she spun before her, "What do you think?"

She'd set a diamond tiara on her head, the delicate gold filigree vanishing into her riotous copper curls so that it looked as though the precious gems merely rested on her head of their own free will. A delicate necklace hung with flowers made of pearls and crystals sparkled around her neck, offset by the dark blue gown she was wearing. Anne laughed. They'd make a fine artist of the girl yet, it seemed. She certainly had an eye for colour.

"You look gorgeous, darling. Do you like those jewels?"

"Who wouldn't?" Bessie replied.

"Keep them," Anne smiled, reaching down to straighten the tiara, "They suit you."

"Can I? Really?" Bessie couldn't believe her luck.

Anne kissed her, "As long as you don't make a fuss about going home now, all right?"

With a lure like the jewels in her hands, Bessie would have promised Anne the world, never mind an easy thing like that. Squealing, she threw herself into Anne's arms. Anne caught her easily, hugging her to her.

It was moments like these that made her realise how much she longed for a daughter of her own. Bessie was such a wonderful child; surely any daughter of hers would be just as lovely. And surely, since she found Bessie's company so easy, she'd find it much easier to mother a daughter than she did her sons? Surely?

* * *

Anne stood at the window, watching Bessie be rowed back to Sheen on her private barge. Though she'd never have admitted it to the little girl, she'd retreated to the Tower for reasons other than business. First, it was the only London Palace she and Henry hadn't spent time at together since their marriage. Second, it was the most secure building in the country. No one could enter this building without her express permission. Not even the Prince Consort. And she had no intention of granting that. Hence, she'd be safe from Henry trying to force her hand before she was ready.

Or so she'd thought. She hadn't counted on the memories that assailed her the moment she stepped over the threshold of the suite of rooms that had been set aside for her use.

They were the rooms she had slept in before her coronation. Henry had been at her side constantly then. There was the room they'd danced a galliard in at midnight because they'd both been too excited to sleep. It was that window seat they'd sat in, making up silly poems and feeding one another sweetmeats like any other pair of teenage sweethearts. That table they'd played cards at for hours, pairing up against Sybil and Eliza and reading one another's cues so well that they'd rarely, if ever, lost a hand.

The moments crowded in upon her, a golden haze that served as a painful reminder of everything she'd lost.

Or had Henry been seeing other women even then? She didn't think so, but she couldn't be sure. A year ago, she'd never truly have dreamed that he might be unfaithful to her, yet his – his daughter's existence proved that his relationship with – with the Rose harlot had been going on for at least that long. And if he'd taken one girl, what was to stop him having taken more than one?

Anne's hand went to her neck. She fumbled the clasp for a moment, then removed the mother-of-pearl locket that hung there.

She flipped it open, gazing down at the miniature within it. Henry, standing tall and proud beside his favourite horse, a falcon on his wrist. He'd given it to her the day she'd gone into confinement with Cecily.

"To remind you of what you'll be missing," he'd teased.

Now the portrait merely gazed at her impassively as a fresh wave of misery welled up within her.

"Why, Henry? Why? What did she give you that I couldn't?"

The words were out before she could stop them, but the miniature said nothing in response. It only watched in silence as she sank to her knees, sobbing out a mountain of pain, regret and betrayal.

* * *

Charles Brandon hesitated outside the royal apartments, wondering whether or not he should knock. The Queen had dismissed her ladies, so perhaps she wanted to be alone. On the other hand, Her Grace was clearly crying bitterly, so she needed someone with her. He was loath to cause her any more distress by disobeying her, though. Then again, for Her Majesty to arrive so unexpectedly, even if it had been under the guise of spending a day with young Lady Lancaster…Something was obviously wrong, especially given how few attendants had come with them. It was almost as though the Queen had fled Court. As if she'd somehow been chased away from the very place that ought, by rights, to be her natural domain.

If that were the case, then surely, it was only his duty, as Her Grace's loyal subject, to do whatever he could to restore her to her rightful place, doubly so since Her Majesty had sought refuge within the Tower, which was his to command?

Thus bolstered, he knocked.

"Madam?" he called, "Is all well? Can I be of service, My Lady?"

At first, he got no answer. Knocking again, he pushed lightly on the door, knowing he was breaching protocol, but unable to leave Her Grace in such distress. To his surprise, the door yielded under his hand.

"Madam?" he repeated.

This time, Anne turned. For several long seconds, she did nothing but look at him. Charles began to become unnerved by her steady gaze and was about to beg her pardon for his rash behaviour and bow his way out of the room when she suddenly spoke.

"Am I no longer beautiful? Is that it? Is that why Henry found so much more pleasure in the Rose girl's bed than he did in mine?"

Charles froze. This was not on his list of expected daily duties. He stuttered, unable, for the life of him, to form a coherent answer. Anne rose and stepped towards him, one hand outstretched.

"Your silence worries me. I ask you again, Lord Brandon. Am I no longer beautiful?"

"No, My Lady. Your Grace knows that is not true."

And it wasn't. Even red-eyed and broken as she so clearly was, Anne Howard was still a remarkably striking woman. There was simply something in the way she held herself that commanded one's attention; some light in her eye that was both fierce and alluring.

"Then why? Why would Henry abandon me?"

"Because, Madam, His Highness is a fool."

The words were out before Charles could stop them. Anne chuckled lightly, stepping closer so that she could place her palm against his.

"And you, Lord Brandon?" she breathed. "Are you a fool?"

Charles's heart pounded. He suddenly felt as though he was in over his head. He was only too aware that something was afoot here that he couldn't for the life of him fathom. He swallowed, unable to speak. Anne gazed at him with those deep, dark eyes of hers. Without a word passing her lips, all of a sudden, it was as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist, let alone matter.

When he did speak at last, it was with a keen sense that his next few words would be momentous.

"I hope Your Majesty knows that I am not."

Anne smiled, a quick flash of brilliance that made Charles's heart stop, "That's the answer I was hoping for." Fast as a snake, she leaned in and kissed him, so quickly he scarcely had time to register what was happening.

"Prove it," she whispered, as she pulled away, "Come to bed with me."


	37. XXXVII: Roses XXII

The sun warmed the room, stretching tendrils between the hangings of the bed and tickling Anne's cheeks as she rolled over. She murmured, dragging her eyes open and blinking the sleep out of her lashes. She propped herself on one arm to look down at the man beside her, a mixture of resignation and tenderness in her eyes.

There was no future in their liaison, she knew that. Nor did she want there to be. She hadn't been in her right mind last night – she'd been full of hurt and betrayal and fury, all of which were the wrong emotions to begin a relationship with. After all, those who lived by the sword often died by the sword. Her father had told her that often enough. No. It would be best if she acted as though the last few hours had never been. Lord Brandon had restored her sense of self-worth and that was all she needed from him. She could go back to her life as Queen now. Go back to her role as Queen and forget this had ever happened.

Yet something in her balked at that idea. Instead, she curled back down in the bed, pillowing her head on Brandon's chest as he too began to wake. She hummed contentedly and he lifted his head to smile lazily at her, "Good morning."

His address was startlingly informal, but Anne couldn't bring herself to care. She mumbled in response and the two of them lay in comfortable silence for a while longer.

"Charles?" Anne asked at last.

"Hmm?"

"If you had a daughter, what would you name her?"

Brandon – Charles – chuckled, tweaking one of her ebony curls where it spilled over his bare skin, "Surely politics would suggest Sybil or Anne?"

"Oh, forget politics," Anne groaned, "Everything else around me is politics. What would  _you_ , Charles, name her?"

Charles hesitated, then scratched his head, "If I truly had a free choice? I'd name her Rachel. I like the idea of my daughter being so beautiful that men would be willing to serve for seven years to win her hand."

Now it was Anne's turn to laugh, "Well, you're not insecure in your confidence and good looks, are you?"

"You asked!" he protested, shoving her lightly and she laughed again, "I suppose I did. It's a pretty name."

They subsided back into silence, not needing words to communicate as they curled into one another.

All too soon, the interlude was shattered by a knock at the door.

"Lord Brandon? Forgive me, but you're being asked for."

A page's hesitant voice came through the door and Charles groaned, "Duty calls, My Lady."

The address was playful, but it recalled them both to their requisite roles regardless. Anne rolled off him and watched him dress, steeling herself to re-shoulder her own mantle as she did so.

Upon finishing, Charles glanced at her, "Shall I send my sister in to you on my way out?"

"I think that would probably be best, yes," Anne nodded.

They looked at one another then, long and hard. Suddenly, Charles came back to the bed in three quick strides. He threw himself to his knees beside it.

"I ask for your blessing, My Lady Queen!" he exclaimed.

"And I grant it gladly," Anne murmured, placing a hand on his bent head, "You have done me a great service tonight, Lord Brandon. You may rest assured that I will not forget it, even if I cannot speak of it openly."

So saying, she withdrew her hand, lest it linger on his hair for too long. He caught it and carried it to his mouth for a kiss.

"My Lady Queen," he repeated, before flinging himself upright again.

He strode from the room and Anne watched him go, sighing. Before she had truly had time to collect her thoughts, however, Sybil swept into the room.

Tactful, as she ever was when she needed to be, she said nothing about her brother, only, "I take it we're going back to Court, then?"

Anne exhaled, "Yes, Sybil. Back to Court."

* * *

Anne was just coming out of Mass, holding Bessie by the hand and surrounded by her ladies, when, out of the blue, Henry threw himself at her feet.

"Forgive me, Madam, for I have sinned!" he cried dramatically.

Anne froze. She almost wanted to sweep past him as if he wasn't there. But Bessie's hand tightened in hers and she looked down at the child. The big blue eyes were wide, half-fearful, half-longing. In that instant, Anne knew she couldn't ignore Henry, if only for Bessie's sake. The girl adored them both. Seeing them at odds like this couldn't be easy for her. Besides, they were in public. For appearances' sake, too, she would have to do her wayward husband the courtesy of hearing him out. Glancing down, she waved her hand and at least attempted to soften her features, "Say your piece, My Lord."

"I should never have bedded the Rose girl. I know that now. Nor should I have promised young Mistress Matilda riches which it is not within my power to give. I can only humbly apologise for my actions and beseech Your Majesty to understand that my desire to see Mistress Matilda comfortably provided for was born, not of pride, but of the natural overwhelming love that any father would feel for his daughter. As regards Mistress Sarah, I have no excuse other than, when I met her, I was still grieving our daughter Cecily. I wasn't in my right mind. Mistress Rose helped me recover, I'll not deny that, but now that I am recovered, I know that my rightful place is at Your Grace's side as your most loving and obedient husband. I can only hope and pray that Your Highness will look kindly upon my lapse of judgement and forgive me for it."

Having finished, Henry lifted his head, trying to catch her eye and read her face, but she avoided his searching gaze.

"I did not say you could rise," she snapped and, chastened, he dropped his head again. Anne looked down at him, torn. She still felt betrayed by him, there was no doubt about that, but she'd also missed him. She'd missed him more than she'd ever thought it would be possible for her to miss anyone.

"Besides," a little voice whispered in her ear, " _It's not as if you haven't betrayed him too."_

"Aunt Anne,  _please._  Can't you see he's sorry?" Bessie broke into her musings and, startled, Anne switched her gaze to her. There was no guile in the girl's face at all. She was on the verge of tears, trembling as she fought to keep herself under control.

Instinctively, Anne reached out to pull her into her side, "It's all right, darling. It's all right," she crooned, before glaring at Henry for a moment.

"You're lucky, My Lord. You've a sweet advocate in my beloved niece Lady Lancaster, who wants nothing more than to see us reconciled. What's more, you chose the right time to speak to me, for does the Lord not say, "Forgive not seven times, but seventy times seven?"'

With that, she reached out and raised him to his feet, "You're my Consort. It's not good for the country to see us at odds. I fear we have both forgotten that in recent months."

It did not escape her that Henry had said nothing about what he intended to do with his mistress now, but since she intended to keep her night with Brandon a secret, she held her tongue, instead saying, "We'll dine together tonight, the three of us, shall we not?"

Nor did it escape Henry that this wasn't exactly an unbegrudged forgiveness on her part. However, he had enough sense to know that, even if he had no intention of giving up his mistress for anything short of a full pardon and excessively loving behaviour on Anne's side of things, saying so was not on the cards. He bowed his head and kissed her hand and then kissed Bessie's cheek, before stepping aside to let them past, "I look forward to it, Madam."

On the surface, therefore, all harmony was restored at last.

* * *

"You didn't have to forgive him. You do know that, don't you?" Sybil murmured later that night, as she brushed out Anne's dark wavy hair, "He'd have deserved it if you didn't."

"Sybil," Anne began, but, throwing caution to the winds, Sybil interrupted her.

"No, Anne," she cut in, disregarding protocol as she hadn't done since they were girls together in the schoolroom, "I can't understand why you're being so soft on him. Quite apart from the fact that Lord Southampton's actions are lese-majeste on a such a scale as has rarely been seen, he hurt you. He hurt you badly. You may not want to admit it, but I've never seen you so wild as you were when you came back from Chelsea. You don't act like that without good cause. If Prince John had treated you like that, you would never have let it go. You would have dragged him through the courts until you'd ruined him. Why is Lord Southampton any different?"

"I chose Henry," Anne pointed out. "I chose to marry him in a way I didn't choose John. I married him against the whole country's wishes, just weeks after I became Queen. Can you not see what damage it would do to my reputation if I now turned round and petitioned the Holy Mother for another annulment? I'd be seen as a woman who couldn't lie in the bed she'd made for herself. I'd be a laughing stock throughout the whole of Europe."

"You're a laughing stock now! What do you think the reaction in Europe will be when word gets out that you've forgiven your adulterous husband without so much as giving him a slap on the wrist? Anne, please! Think what you do!"

"I have." Anne snapped back, before making a colossal effort to tighten her control on herself, "Sybil. I value your counsel and you know that, but please. Let the matter be."

"No. Not until you tell me why you won't even consider petitioning for an annulment on the grounds of adultery. It would be an open and shut case! His Grace has fathered a child on another woman, for heaven's sake!"

"Maybe. But there's other factors to be considered."

"Such as what?" Sybil glared at Anne in the mirror, not caring what her conduct would look like to anyone else. It was common knowledge that she was Anne's oldest and closest friend. If she didn't challenge the Queen, no one would. Given the circumstances, protocol be damned!

"Bessie, for one. She's grown up at Court as a virtual Princess, safe in the knowledge that her uncle and I are deeply, deeply in love. Can you imagine what it would do to her, to have me drag Henry through the flamenical courts?"

"Elizabeth Sinclair doesn't matter! Not compared to Lord Southampton's behaviour. And even if she did, no one can say you haven't treated her with incredible generosity. She's Duchess of Lancaster! Anyway, she's a child. People would understand your being merciful to her. She doesn't have to fall with her uncle, not if you don't want her to. But you can't let Lord Southampton get away with this!"

"Bessie does matter, Sybil. She does," Anne snarled, before suddenly wilting, "But you're right. She's not my primary concern."

"Well, then, what is?" Sybil pressed.

Anne hesitated. Sybil waited, a thousand possibilities coursing through her mind. She was deeply intrigued to see Anne's reasoning.

What she wasn't prepared for was Anne to get up, seal the bedchamber door herself and then turn round, resignation in her eyes.

"You seem to have forgotten, Sybil, that I'm not the spotless girl I was when I annulled my marriage to John. Yes, Lord Southampton has been unfaithful to me, but so too have I been unfaithful to him."

Sybil's jaw dropped as Anne's hand crept to her stomach.

"You think… My brother?"

"I can't be sure yet. But I'm definitely late. And you know I've never been late in my life."

"But then…"

"Your brother could well be the father. But so could Henry. It could be either of them. Either of them, do you hear me?"

There was a deafening silence. Sybil gulped several times.

"That's why I can't destroy Henry. Queens are supposed to be virtuous, untouchable. The scandal of taking him back, despite everything, is nothing compared to the scandal that would arise if anyone so as much as suspected that I might have demeaned myself so much as to share the bed of a man, whom, for all his loyalty and other fine qualities, is most definitely  _not_ my husband."


	38. XXXVIII: Roses XXIII

Had Anne thrown herself into his arms when he begged her pardon, the way Henry felt he deserved after abasing himself so far as to beg her pardon in public so abjectly, Henry might have forsworn Sarah's company altogether once he had been reconciled with his wife. Since that had not been the case, however, he saw no reason why he should give up his secret pleasures. After all, Anne wanted to make things right between them. She wouldn't be prying into his affairs, not now. So, he did nothing more than curtail his visits to Sarah's household at Chelsea a little to avoid suspicion. Only one piece of news could have forced him to stop them forever.

That piece of news didn't arrive until the Christmas celebrations, and even when it did, he slipped away one last time in early January to have a final night with Sarah before he bade her farewell. It was only when the sun rose that he finally broke the news to her.

"Shall I look for you soon, My Lord?" Sarah had woken as he slipped from beneath her, hoping to avoid a scene, and now lay watching him dress from between half-closed eyes. There was hope in her voice and Henry's heart wrenched as he turned to her. He did so hate making women cry.

"I'm afraid not, my rose," he said gently.

She sat up then, distress flaring, "But!"

"Anne's with child. I daren't distress her. Not now. She felt the child quicken last week, and, well, we need a daughter this time. If she finds out I'm still visiting you…," Henry trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

"Henry!"

The single word of protest was out before Sarah could stop it. He turned towards her, one hand outstretched. Anger had sparked in him at her protest – couldn't she see what a delicate game he was playing? – but one glance at her eyes melted it away. Her gaze was full of nothing but injured desire.

He climbed back on to the bed beside her, cupping her cheek in his hand.

"Sarah, darling. You knew when all this started that my first duty was to England and to the Queen. I've never hidden that. In your heart of hearts, you must have known this day would come. As long as Anne wasn't with child, it was one thing, but now that we have a chance of a Princess at last…well, you do see why my first priority has to be her, don't you?"

Sarah fixed him with an uncharacteristically suspicious look, "I suppose the Queen  _is_ with child? You're not just saying that because you're tiring of me?"

"Of course not!" Henry protested, "Would I tire of my northern rose?"

He reached out for the jewelled collar she had worn to greet him the day before and looped it over her head, "I told you the day I gave you this that our futures would be entwined forever, do you remember that? I meant it then and I mean it now. You have to trust me. I know the next few months will be hard on us both and especially you, but even if I don't visit or write, it doesn't mean I've forgotten you, I swear. Nor Matilda."

As if on cue, a sleepy wail cut through the air a couple of rooms over. Henry chuckled.

"She knows I'm talking about her."

"Ah, Constance can see to her for now," Sarah murmured, reaching up to stroke Henry's cheek as she softened, "I'm far more concerned about her father."

"I ought to go," Henry began, but Sarah cut him off with an unusually assertive kiss.

"Please, Henry," she breathed, "If I'm about to lose you for months on end, then at least grant me another couple of hours. Please."

Henry didn't have the strength to deny her. Unlacing his hose again, he pushed her down on to the bed and rolled on top of her.

"As you wish, my Lady Sarah," he growled in her ear, "Your wish is my command."

Later, as he dressed for the second time, she rolled over towards him. He could feel her eyes on him, but she said nothing until he was almost out of the door.

"Come back to me," she begged suddenly, "When this is all over and there's a Princess squalling in the cradle, come back to me."

Henry didn't reply. It was safest not to. He couldn't be held to anything that way.

* * *

"Are you warm enough, sweetheart? Shall I fetch you anything? A cup of mead, perhaps? Or something to eat?"

Henry fussed around Anne, clucking like a mother hen. Anne had to fight back a laugh. His change in attitude since the child had quickened and she'd told him she was with child was nothing short of ridiculous. He'd gone from almost brittle courtesy to fawning adoration in the blink of an eye. Well. Two could play that game. Exchanging a wry glance with Meg when he wasn't looking, she simpered up at him.

"Some marchpane would be lovely. I've no great appetite for supper, but I think something sweet would do the trick. But you needn't fetch it yourself, love. You could always send a maid."

"Oh, no, no. It's no trouble at all," Planting a smacking kiss on her cheek, Henry whirled on his heel and bounded out of the room. Anne held herself together until the doors had swung shut behind him and then collapsed with laughter.

"I can't believe how doting he's being. It's so unlike him!"

"Do you remember when he chafed so much at having to dance attendance upon you when you were pregnant with Prince George?" Meg chuckled, crossing the room to plump Anne's pillows, "I'd say you could be twice as demanding now and he wouldn't dare bat an eyelid."

Anne writhed her way into a more comfortable position and smirked up at her old friend, "Oh, I intend to. You don't think I'd let this chance slip through my fingers, do you? I'll just have to be slightly subtler about it than I was with George."

The child in her turned just then, as though they approved of her sense of mischief and her hand crept involuntarily to her belly.

She would always be grateful to this child for giving her a fresh start with Henry, or the chance of one, at least. It was almost a shame she wasn't his.

Oh, physically, there was no way of knowing who'd truly fathered her child, but Anne knew in her bones that, boy or girl, this child wasn't Henry's.

Her certainty was part of the reason she intended to be so demanding during the next few months. Henry probably thought he'd got off lightly with the way she'd handled his philandering, but she hadn't forgotten it, even if he thought she had. There was a part of her that considered it a fitting punishment, making him dance attendance upon the whims – both real and invented – of Charles Brandon's child.

Footsteps broke into her reverie and she glanced up just in time to see Henry re-enter the room bearing an entire tray full of marchpane.

She beamed at him, "Thank you. This looks perfect."

"Anything for the Queen of my heart," he whispered back. Their lips met in a chaste kiss, before she reached for the marchpane, deciding on the spur of the moment that being deliberately fickle and difficult could wait for a while. She may originally have only sent Henry for the marchpane to give him an errand so that he'd stop hovering, but now that she had it in front of her, she was actually genuinely hungry for it.

* * *

" _I was wondering, would Ana like to be godmother to her English cousin? I know she's young, but it won't be long until she's a woman now and, from what you've told me, she's growing into exactly the kind of character I'd want to act as a spiritual guide to the most important child in England. Oh, brother, I'm sure I don't need to tell you how fervently I'm praying for a healthy girl. It's been four years, nearly five, since I ascended the throne, and England still doesn't have a Princess in the cradle. I haven't admitted it to anyone yet, but I'm starting to feel time creeping up on me. What will we do if I die without a daughter? I know I've invested the Succession in Richard, with remainder to Mary's daughters if need be, but I know Henry. He won't want to stand for that, not when I raised his hopes by being so generous to little Elizabeth. Not that I regret that, not for an instant. She's such a lovely child, she deserves everything I can give her…."_

Sighing, George pushed aside Anne's letter. He stood up and stretched, gazing absently out of the window as he did so.

There was no point in denying it. He was worried about his little sister.

In fairness, he had good reason to be. She hadn't sounded this shaken since the very first letters she'd sent him from Ludlow, when she truly had been a little girl thrown into a woman's role by their mother's machinations. Oh, she made a brave effort to disguise her fears, at least in the official dispatches, but he knew her. He knew his Annabella. Besides, her estrangement from her Prince Consort had been long enough and public enough to be common knowledge all over Christendom. There were even rumours that His Highness had fathered a child on another woman.

George didn't fully believe those rumours – surely no Englishwoman would be so foolish, so disloyal to his sister, as to actually accept the Prince Consort's advances, even if he did make them? Surely any woman of sense would scorn Henry and remind him in no uncertain terms where his duty lay? Henry's duty to Anne was even greater than that of your ordinary Prince Consort, since he owed everything he was to Anne's love and favour.

Still, the fact that the rumours of his having had an affair existed at all was a testament to just how deep the divide between Anne and her once-beloved husband had become.

And then there was the fact that Anne had changed her mind on the Succession again, vesting it in Richard and his heirs in the absence of a daughter of her own blood, with remainder to Mary and her daughters. That didn't bode well for the state of her marriage either.

Yet, hard on the heels of the scurrilous gossip, almost in the same letter as the news of the developments on the matter of the Succession, had come this letter declaring Anne's pregnancy. The official notification had been overwhelmingly joyous – and in such marked contrast to the letter Anne had sent him privately – that George wondered whether Anne had been trying to make a point with it, to counter the rumours of her second marriage still being in difficulty, for example.

Exhaling, George left his apartments in search of Juana. They were going to have to discuss these latest developments, not least the possibility of Ana becoming godmother to her newest English cousin. This wasn't the kind of decision he could make on his own.

As he went, he offered up a fervent, silent, prayer that his little sister would be blessed with a daughter this time around. Not only because she deserved to know the sweet satisfaction of having secured the Succession, but also because he feared she had staked everything on this newest child being a girl. After everything she'd been through in the past few years, George honestly didn't know if she'd have the strength to carry on if her fourth child turned out to be a boy rather than the longed-for girl.


	39. XXXIX: Roses XXIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have another chapter! Reviews would be a lovely birthday present, hint hint ;)

Constance was worried about her mistress. For the past fortnight, all Mistress Rose had done, it seemed, was retch. She could keep down nothing but the smallest sips of warm milk or ale. All she was capable of doing was lying in bed or on a divan in the solar, listening to music. She simply hadn’t the energy for anything else. She couldn’t bring herself to administer the household or even to play with her infant daughter. Goodness, since her condition had worsened in the last few days, she hadn’t so much as asked to see the child, and this from a woman who was usually an eager mother. Her neglect of the household affairs was also unusual. Mistress Rose was ordinarily a conscientious Stewardess, at least she was when the Prince Consort wasn’t present to claim the lion’s share of her attention, which he hadn’t been in recent weeks.

So yes, alarm bells were ringing for Constance, and ringing loudly enough that she summoned a physician to examine her young mistress.

In the event, it didn’t take long for the matronly woman to finish her examination. Between Sarah’s severe vomiting and the fact that she hadn’t bled in two months, there was really only one conclusion that could be drawn.

“Mistress Rose is with child again, Constance. I’m hardly surprised, given the circumstances, but all the same, you’ll take care of her, won’t you? She seems to be taking this babe harder than the other and there’s not much of a gap between the children. Two children so close together is not always good for a woman’s health.”

Constance nodded, face grave, “I know. You can rely on me, Mistress Lewis.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mistress Lewis finished packing away her medicine chest, pulled on her gloves and went to the door, collecting her fee of a noble as she passed, “I’m sure Mistress Rose much appreciates your loyalty.”

“Thank you,” Constance curtsied in acknowledgement and then turned and scurried back up the staircase as the physician left.

Eight-month-old Matilda was crying, but before Constance could go to her – where was that dratted nurse when you needed her? –  Mistress Rose called out from where she was lying propped up on the divan.

“Constance, would you fetch me pen and ink before you see to Matilda, please? I may feel like death, but I need to write to His Grace. He deserves to know he is to be a father again. I’m sure he’ll be delighted at the news, even if he can’t visit at the moment.”

Constance hummed. It wasn’t her place to say anything, but she wasn’t quite so sure that the young Prince Consort would return to Mistress Rose in the way that she seemed determined that he would. Five months was a long time for a heated young man to stay interested in a woman if he couldn’t see her. Everyone knew how fickle men could be. It was one of the reasons they were rarely allowed to take up any positions of responsibility. Moreover, if the baby in the Queen’s belly turned out to be a Princess, then it would only be in His Highness’s best interests to play the doting husband and father. From what Constance knew of the young man, he wasn’t a fool, at least not where his own interests were concerned. It would very much surprise her, therefore, if he dared flaunt Mistress Rose under Her Grace’s nose in the next few years. If he dared carry on any kind of liaison with the younger woman at all, in fact.

But now, with Mistress Rose in such a delicate condition, wasn’t the time to mention awkward facts such as those. As such, Constance merely swallowed her sharp comment and fetched her mistress the ink and other writing material she wanted. She saw her settled before hurrying to the nursery and turning her attention to the child crying in the cradle.

She knew why Jane had left the little lady to cry, of course. She was eight months old now and they were trying to wean her. But Matilda was proving surprisingly attached to the breast, preferring it over the gruel they were trying to accustom her to whenever they gave her a choice.

Constance picked her up, shushing her to little avail.

“Poor thing,” she muttered, “You don’t quite understand why we’ve suddenly stopped letting you have Jane’s milk whenever you want it, have you? Never mind. Let’s go and see if we can find some gruel for you instead.”

So saying, she bore Matilda off, leaving Sarah engrossed in her letter.

* * *

Margaret didn’t trust her brother. After the incomparable stupidity he’d shown over the matter of Mistress Rose, she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. Hence why she now had members of his household reporting to her and screening his mail as and when they could. If there was anything particularly urgent or potentially dangerous, she made sure her agents brought it to her before Henry could see it.

Naturally, Mistress Rose’s letter informing Henry that he was to be a father again counted as more than just _potentially_ dangerous. It was hardly surprising, therefore, that Margaret’s private secretary put it in front of her as she broke her fast one morning.

“Our agents in your brother’s household intercepted this, Lady March,” the woman muttered in an undertone, “I thought you ought to see it immediately.”

“Thank you, Frances,” Margaret nodded, taking the sheaf from her secretary and noting the rose embedded in the scarlet wax. So. It was from her brother’s former paramour, was it? What did she want?

Lifting the seal clear of the parchment with a deft flick of her wrist and the aid of a broad-bladed knife, Margaret scanned the close-packed lines of Sarah’s smooth, cultured hand. Her face and eyes darkened as she read it. In fact, she didn’t even bother finishing it.

“Put it on the fire,” she snarled, shoving it away. Frances blinked. It was rare that her mistress was quite so blunt.

“My Lady? Is that not a private letter for His Highness? Do you really want me to burn it?”

“My brother’s harlot is with child again. I would tear him apart for still visiting her bed, but I think, under the circumstances, it’s best I don’t. We can’t risk him finding out. We wouldn’t want anything to distract him from the attendance he’s dancing on the Queen. Not when he’s finally learnt the importance of being a doting husband.”

Margaret’s eyes glinted hard as she snatched the letter up again and tossed it into the fire herself. The flames leaped and hissed, crackling gleefully as they consumed their new fuel. A satisfied smirk curled Margaret’s lips and she turned back to her breakfast.

The family honour was safe for now. And once a Princess lay screaming in the cradle, nothing would be able to touch them anyway. The Plantagenets would be the first family in England, just as she’d always dreamed they would be.

* * *

Anne retreated to the Tower for her lying-in. She went a whole month earlier than protocol demanded, for she was taking no chances with this child. The Tower, too, was a significant personal choice for her. Not only was it the most secure Palace in all of London, indeed, in the country, and in the heart of the land her daughter would one day rule, but it was the place she had regained her confidence as a woman in the aftermath of Henry’s betrayal. It seemed fitting, therefore, that her long-awaited daughter should be born there.

True to her word, she had been deliberately difficult during this pregnancy, especially when Henry was around. Oh, she hadn’t made him deal with the nausea and her frequent need of the chamber pot this time around. She wasn’t that cruel. But he was still in frequent demand for all that.

“Henry, brush my hair, my head aches unbearably!”

“Rub my back. No, not like that! Harder!”

“Fetch my wine!”

No sooner had he returned with whatever article she had asked him for than, more often than not, she would dash it out of his hand in a fit of either real or pretended pique, crying, “Idiot! I asked for cider, not wine!” or whatever alternative popped into her head.

To his credit, Henry bore it all with surprising good humour. For him, anyway. Besides, on the rare occasions he did dare try to remonstrate, she would call up tears so fierce that it was hard to believe they might not be real. She had always been a good actress. And Henry, who, if he had learnt nothing else at his mother’s knee, had learnt that pregnant women needed to be humoured at all costs, always yielded to tears.

More serious, however, was her genuine terror for the state of the child’s well-being. She insisted on being examined by her midwife, Mistress Lytton, almost daily and that was if she didn’t have any unexpected twinges. If she did, one of her ladies would be sent running to fetch the woman, no matter the hour. 

In the end, Mistress Lytton just moved into her rooms and slept on a pallet in the antechamber. It was easier for all concerned.

Which meant that, when Anne woke at three in the morning one night, screaming in pure, unadulterated terror, she was the first to reach her side.

“Now then, Madam, let’s not get in a state. Whatever nightmare Your Grace has had, I assure you the Princess is just fine. She’s warm and comfortable inside Your Grace and has no intention of moving anywhere just now.”

The routine litany was already on her lips before she’d even bent to examine the Queen. Anne glared up at her with anguished eyes.

“That’s easy for you to say, Mistress. You aren’t carrying the jewel of England within you. If anything happens to this girl…”

“Nothing’s going to have happened to Her Highness, Your Majesty. I examined you both not twelve hours ago, and she was fine then, was she not? If Your Grace is in pain, perhaps you simply have a stomach ache. Your Highness did have rather a lot of orange tarts at supper. Shall I make Your Majesty up a tincture to ease your discomfort?”

“I employ you as a midwife, not a herbalist!” Anne screamed, thrashing on the bed with poison in her eyes.

Mistress Lytton glanced behind her and stifled a yawn just as Susan entered the room.

“Do your duty, Mistress Lytton,” she chided gently. Secretly, she could understand the woman’s reluctance. This pregnancy seemed to have turned the ordinarily robust Anne into a hypochondriac, which was wearying for all of them, but most especially the midwife. Still, it was her duty to stand by her friend and mistress, and stand by her she would.

“No other expectant mother would be so coddled,” Mistress Lytton grumbled, “It’s not even Matins yet, for heavens’ sake!”

Susan raised an eyebrow, “Need I remind you whom you serve, Mistress? You wouldn’t want to cost England her future through neglect, would you? You know that’s what lost us our last Princess.”

Mistress Lytton’s eyes flashed for a moment and she shook her head slightly as she woke up enough to fully realise where she was and what was going on around her. Without further ado, she bent to examine Anne, murmuring an apology for her earlier behaviour.

She hadn’t expected there to be anything wrong with the Princess. She’d thought that this, like the thousand or so before it, would just be a routine examination done to soothe an overly-paranoid mother-to-be. She soon discovered she was wrong. This time, there was actually a fair reason for the Queen’s distress. She wasn’t about to admit that to the Queen, however. Thus, pasting a smile on her face, she stood up.

“All proceeding like clockwork, Madam,” she lied with a laugh, “So there’s no need to worry. Just lie back and go back to sleep. The rest will do you the world of good.”

The look she shot Susan over Anne’s head, however, said otherwise. Susan wasn’t stupid and, no sooner had Anne’s eyes drifted shut again than she had taken Mistress Lytton by the arm and swept her back into the antechamber that was also serving as her bedchamber.

“You look like you wanted a word.”

“Indeed, Lady Lincoln. I’ll not beat about the bush. The Princess has dropped, but she’s dropped wrong. Her Highness is breech.”

Susan’s jaw dropped. Her face drained of colour and Mistress Lytton hastened to reassure her.

“I’ve not lost hope of Her Highness turning herself round yet. It happens very late sometimes.  But if she doesn’t…”

“Then Her Grace is in for a hard time of it,” Susan finished. Mistress Lytton nodded.

“To be frank, Lady Lincoln, I’ve never known of a breech birth that didn’t carry with it at least some consequences. We must only hope and pray that, if it does come to that, that this time they won’t be of the fatal kind for either mother or child.”

Susan nodded, crossing herself, “Please God.”

She paused, “You did the right thing in not telling the Queen, Mistress. Her Majesty is nervous enough as it is. Let’s not give her anything more to worry about.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Mistress Lytton agreed, daringly offering Susan her hand. Susan hesitated, but then took it, so that the two of them stood clasped for a moment, the social barrier between them temporarily broken by the burden of the ominous secret they shared.


	40. XL: Roses XXV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist being very generous this Easter and giving you all another chapter - I think we've all been waiting long enough for this, as has Anne ;)

The bells were ringing out, pealing joyfully from every church steeple in London.

"A Princess!" they pealed, "England has a Princess at last!"

The heralds heard the bells and shouted the news far and wide in every corner of the city. From there, the news spread to the public houses and thus across every threshold in the capital.

Old women wept for joy and young maidservants and apprentices threw their caps and aprons in the air, whooping.

"A Princess!" They shouted, "A Princess! God be praised, we have a Princess! God save her! God save and God Bless Her Highness!"

* * *

Anne heard the merriment from where she lay in her apartments in the Tower, the windows propped ajar for the first time in days. At the sound of the jubilant shouts, her heart swelled within her. The Londoners had always loved her, right from when she'd been a child. It was wonderful to hear they shared her joy now, on this, the happiest day of her life.

"That's all for you, my darling," she whispered to the baby who snuffled against her chest, "That's all for you. Do you know how happy you've made us? Do you?"

"May I, Anne?"

A soft voice broke into her joyous reverie and she half-turned her head, though she didn't need to look to know who it was who stood beside her. Only Sybil would have dared breach protocol with her like this, in the moment of her greatest triumph. And indeed, her oldest, dearest friend stood at the head of the bed, her arms half-outstretched towards the precious child. Exhaustion shadowed her dark eyes, as it did Anne's, but the sheer rapture on her face rendered that obsolete. England had her Princess at last. It might have taken two full days, but England had her Princess at last and she was beautiful.

Had it been anyone but Sybil asking to hold the little girl, Anne would probably most likely have refused, but Sybil was different. Sybil was as good as her sister; indeed, more than her sister, given how little time she'd even spent with Mary since their nursery days.

"You may as well," she laughed, answering Sybil's grin with a beam of her own, "You're going to be her Godmother, after all."

"Truly?" Sybil's eyes widened at the unexpected honour.

"Who else would I ask?" Anne chuckled, "I've a mind to name you and the Princess of Asturias as her Godmothers and King James of Scotland as her Godfather."

Still taken aback, Sybil reached for the quietly-mewling baby and cradled her gently.

"We've been waiting seven years for you, young lady."

The words were out, had slipped across her lips, before she was even fully conscious of having formed the thought.

"Seven years," Anne murmured, "Has it really been that long? You could almost say we've served for her in the same way that Jacob served for Rachel in the Old Testament."

" _If I truly had a free choice, I'd name her Rachel. I like the idea of my daughter being so beautiful that men would be willing to serve for seven years to win her hand."_

The words echoed in her head, reminding her of the last time she'd been in these lavish rooms.

"Rachel," She played with the name, "Rachel Howard. Rachel, Princess of Wales. I like it."

"What?" Sybil looked up from where she was cooing over the baby, puzzled. Anne reached out and took her best friend's hand.

"You're right. We have been waiting seven years for her, one way or another. So let's name her after the woman Jacob served for. Let's name her Rachel."

"Rachel, Princess of Wales," Sybil repeated, a smile tugging at her lips, "I like it. It's unusual, but I like it."

"Good. So did your brother."

That was all Anne ever said on the matter of who she truly believed had fathered her child. Sybil, meanwhile, was loyal enough not to press her any further.

* * *

"Anne, she's gorgeous, darling! She looks just like you!" Henry gushed, bouncing his new-born daughter in his arms, love and protectiveness surging through him as he held the infant. Anne beamed up at him.

"Beautiful as her biblical namesake, do you think?"

"Oh, absolutely. Although… Is Rachel really a suitable name for her, love?"

"What do you mean?" Anne pushed herself into a sitting position, "I think it's a lovely name."

"Oh, it is!" Henry agreed hastily, "But.,. Well, it's not an ordinary name, is it? I'd expected you to choose, oh, I don't know, Elizabeth or Eleanor or Mary or something. One of the more common royal names, anyway. Not Rachel."

"No daughter of mine will ever be Elizabeth," Anne scoffed, before she could stop herself. Then, recovering her composure, she reached out to put a hand over his where he cupped their daughter's head, "You chose Cecily's name. Let me choose this girl's. Besides, she means a fresh start between us. A fresh start for the country. Why shouldn't she have a name of her own, given that that's the case?"

"Well, when you put it like that," Henry trailed off, before placing their precious girl back into Anne's arms. Anne lifted the child up and kissed her as she slept, unable to control the wave of tenderness that swept through her as she held her daughter. She gazed down at Rachel hungrily, committing every tiny whorl of her skin to memory. She'd done it more times than she could count in the few scarce hours since Rachel had been born.

In a flash, it hit her. This was what maternal love truly was. This conflicting feeling of wanting to give your child a perfect world and to protect them from everything, of barely wanting to let them out of your sight. Tears filled her eyes at the realisation. She blinked them back fiercely. She'd begun to give up hope of ever feeling true maternal love.

" _Breila?"_  Henry breathed, and she mustered a smile for him, "Have you been listening to me?"

Anne grimaced. She hadn't heard a word.

"Sorry, love. I must admit I wasn't. What was that?"

"I asked how you wished to celebrate Rachel's birth. She is our heiress, after all. She deserves something special."

Anne heard a particular note in his voice and smirked up at him, "You want me to hold a joust for her, don't you?"

"Well…" Henry flushed, caught. Anne threw back her head and laughed, heedless of the fact that she startled her Princess awake.

"You are ridiculously predictable, you know that? Very well, if that's what you want. We'll have a joust. I suppose it would be a shame not to, given how accomplished a rider you are."

She smirked again and it was Henry's turn to laugh.

"You knew that when you married me. I shall ride for you as well as for our daughter. I shall be your Champion as I was at your coronation. I shall be your champion and your Lancelot and Rachel's Sir Loyal Heart. What do you think of that idea?"

Anne smiled, "I look forward to seeing your emblem. And Bessie can carry the chrism for her Christening, the way she did for George. And we'll hold a Masque as well. What about King Arthur, since, as you've just pointed out, you've ever been my Lancelot and I your Guinevere? Except I think we'll make Bessie Guinevere this time. She's growing up quickly and she does deserve a prominent part in these festivities. But more practically and more immediately, could you call for a nurse? I think our daughter is trying to tell us something."

Indeed, Rachel, damp, hungry and irritable at having been woken unexpectedly, was wriggling uncomfortably in Anne's arms, red-faced and shrieking. One glance at her and Henry sprang to his feet, chuckling.

"Of course. Anything for the most precious girl in England. Her wish is my command."

* * *

James threw back his head and laughed with genuine pleasure when he heard of Rachel's birth.

"So, your mistress has an heiress at last, does she, Lady Somerset? It pleases me greatly to hear it. My royal sister has been through so much, she deserves this success."

"Thank you, Sire," Lady Somerset curtsied, "Every true Englishwoman is overjoyed to hear of Princess Rachel's safe arrival."

"And so you should be, Lady Somerset. A healthy girl is a divine gift to be treasured," James smile and was about to wave Lady Somerset away when she suddenly spoke again.

"My Lady Mistress also wondered whether Your Grace might consider standing as Godfather to the Princess? Her Majesty would consider it a lasting sign of the friendship and warm regard with which she has always thought of you, Sire,"

James was too consummate a politician to truly show how much Anne's gesture had moved him, but even he couldn't entirely prevent the way his voice thickened as the breath caught in his throat. In fact, he had to look away for several seconds to compose himself. He'd been convinced that Anne would name her beloved brother George Godfather to her long-desired heiress. He hadn't expected it to be him. Oh, he'd prayed for her to be sent a daughter, but he'd never thought she'd think highly enough of him to name him Godfather to the precious girl. Not above her older brother, anyway.

"I would be honoured, Lady Somerset," he managed at last, "I would be honoured. You may tell your mistress that. You may also tell her that we shall celebrate Princess Rachel's birth here in Edinburgh as greatly as we would celebrate the birth of a Duchess of Rothesay. It will be the least I can do for such a beloved child who is both my niece and my goddaughter."

Impulsively, he reached down to his belt and unclasped a jewelled cross that hung there beside his coin pouch.

He unclasped the latter as well and weighed it in his hand, before tossing both across to Lady Somerset. Fortunately, she was deft enough to catch them.

"Send the cross to Queen Anne as a gift with my warmest regards, wishes and blessings for the Princess's health and Her Majesty's continued recovery from childbed," he ordered, "A gift for the Princess of Wales will follow as soon as I have thought of a suitable one. You may keep the coin purse and its contents. You've more than earned it by bringing me such glorious news."

Despite her best efforts, Lady Somerset's jaw dropped at King James' generosity. "Sire! This is too generous!"

James chuckled, "As I say, you've earned it. You and your news are as welcome here as the Angel Gabriel."

So saying, he waved her and her stuttered, fulsome thanks away. Even as he watched her go, his mind was already whirling with the possibilities of how best to celebrate Rachel's birth.

He'd always intended to hold a joust for his firstborn daughter. To hold a joust and feast her until midnight and let fireworks off from Castle Hill and Arthur's Seat. So what should he do for the little Princess of Wales? And what kind of gift should he send her?

As he was ruminating, a slip of parchment caught his eye. It was a missive from Lady Douglas, who was on state business for him in France. In the midst of matters of state, she had written,  _"By the by, I was shown some very fine Landais ponies by the Duchesse du Guise's Lady Secretary the other day. They're breeding marvellously this year. Shall I arrange to have some sent over for the Princes to learn to ride on?"_

" _A foal. That would make a fine gift for the Princess. They could grow and learn together."_

The thought flashed through his head and he beamed. Of course. Why hadn't he thought of that at once? Anne was fearless, and by all accounts the Prince Consort loved his horses too. Any daughter of theirs was bound to be a fine horsewoman when she grew older. Sending a pony for her to learn to ride on, especially as smooth a trotter as a Landais? That would be a perfect gift, and one that would last as well.

As for celebrating her birth…Well. Why shouldn't he treat her with all the honour he would a daughter of his own? After all, Rachel was his niece and Anne had named him her Godfather. Surely his wish to celebrate her safe arrival in the world and the Christian community with as much grandeur as possible would only be too understandable, given the circumstances?

" _Yes,_ " James thought decisively,  _"The Princess of Wales merits as much celebration as a Duchess of Rothesay would, if we had one. We'll have a tournament, a feast and fireworks for her and grudge who grudge."_

It was just a pity, he mused, that he couldn't shake a niggling feeling that the first to begrudge the new Princess of Wales such honour would be his own wife. She did seem to cling to her position as Anne's heiress presumptive rather…

But never mind. James shook his head firmly, quashing such thoughts. He and the rest of Scotland would celebrate the Princess Rachel's birth, no matter what Mary thought. Anyway, it was high time Mary learnt to share someone else's joy, even if it thwarted her own ambitions.

Thus resolved, James opened the door of his chamber and called for Lady Lennox.

* * *

"Lord Leonard Grey challenges His Highness the Prince Consort!"

Leonard Grey, younger brother to the Marchioness of Dorset and one of the more accomplished tourney knights that hung around the periphery of the Court, rode out into the tiltyard to wild applause. He was a dashing young man with dark blonde hair that always looked artfully tousled and a piercing blue gaze. There wasn't a teenaged maid at Court that wasn't at least half in love with him.

Henry, being armed at the other end of the yard by Ralph Neville, turned his head irritably at the cheers, "Listen to them. Cheering their darling. I wonder how dashing he'll seem once I've dumped him on the ground a couple of times."

"Ignore them, My Lord," Ralph said equably, handing Henry his lance, "The people are fickle, you know that. The Princess has secured you the Queen's love and that's all that matters, really."

"True," Henry replied, pushing his visor up impatiently so that he could swipe at some of the sweat beading his brow, "But that doesn't mean I wouldn't like the Court's as well. I'm their Prince Consort. It ought to be mine by right, surely?"

Before Ralph could answer, he slid his visor down and swung his mount around, riding to take up his place in the run opposite Lord Leonard.

Henry's impatient gesture was to prove far costlier than anyone could have dreamed. He may have slid his visor down, but he hadn't snapped it into place. It wasn't visibly loose, but it was loose enough that it would move under pressure rather than do its job properly.

Oblivious, the herald dropped the flag. The riders spurred their mounts forward.

They met in a clash of splintering wood, ringing metal and whinnying horses.

No one ever truly saw what happened. All anyone knew was that, when the dust settled, only one rider rode away unscathed. The other lay in the dust, trapped beneath his overbalanced horse. A thin, sharp, shaft of wood protruded from where his visor should have been.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then, with a muffled curse, William Plantagenet scrambled over the barrier separating the run from the stands and dashed to his fallen cousin's side.


	41. XLI: Roses XXVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't do this to you again... I promise this chapter doesn't end on a cliffhanger!

"Madam? His Highness is asking for you," Joanna Caerleon only dared to interrupt the Queen's urgent prayer because allowing her to say goodbye to her young husband was even more critical at this point in time. The Prince Consort had plenty of people praying for him. The Queen, however, would never forgive herself if she didn't bid him farewell, even if they hadn't had the easiest of relationships of late. Joanna had seen that bitter regret too many times before in her years as a physician to the great and good of England. She wasn't going to let her royal mistress fall prey to it as well, not if she could help it.

The hope that leapt in Her Grace's face as she pushed herself to her feet with an effort was so obvious that it wrenched at Joanna's heart.

"Will His Highness recover, Joanna?"

"In all honesty, I doubt it, My Lady Queen," Joanna murmured gently, "His Highness is currently lucid, yes, but his temperature is still high. The splinter went directly into his eye and took dirt with it. It's beyond my power to prevent an infection in those sorts of circumstances. Between that and the fact that His Grace's legs are shattered beyond repair…I'd be surprised if he lasts the night, although His Grace is young and strong and miracles do happen."

For a moment, Her Grace looked crushed.

"Rachel's birth was supposed to give us a fresh start, not…not this!"

The words were out before she could stop them. Indeed, Joanna wasn't entirely sure Her Grace was even aware she'd said them at all. Tactfully, Joanna remained silent until the younger woman had drawn herself up and mustered a brave smile.

"If I am to say goodbye to my husband, then God knows I'll not do it with a smile on my face. His Grace gave me a Princess, he deserves to be feted for that."

"Very good, My Lady. This way," Joanna ushered the Queen ahead of her, knowing as she did so that they were breaking every rule of royal seclusion in the book. The Princess of Wales wasn't even a week old. By rights, the Queen should still have another three weeks of seclusion ahead of her, at a minimum. More, considering how difficult the birth had been. But the news of the Prince Consort's accident had changed all that. The moment she'd heard, Queen Anne had been determined to rise from her bed, despite the fact that she could barely walk unaided, and her ladies had been too frightened that she might slip back into a dangerous lethargy unless they yielded to countermand her. Hence why she was dressed and, ignoring her own weakness, hurrying as best she was able to her husband's side.

Joanna signed for the doors of His Highness's chambers to be opened for the Queen and then melted away as Her Grace entered. She deserved these moments at least. The men and maids bustling around Henry followed suit, but Anne wouldn't, in truth, have noticed if they had stayed. She was too focused on the figure slumped in the bed before her.

"Henry. Darling," she breathed, collapsing to her knees beside the bed, stifling a groan of pain as she did so and clasping his hand in both of hers.

Henry's eyes flickered open, " _Breila._ This isn't how we thought things would be, is it?"

"Hush. Don't talk. Save your strength. You'll need it to fight the infection," Anne whispered, squeezing his hand.

"I'm not going to fight," Henry sighed, uncharacteristically meek, "Dr Caerleon has been blunt enough with me for that, and I suspect with you as well. We both know I'd lose anyway, and you know how I hate losing."

"Don't say such things," Anne chided, unable to match his courageous stab at gallows humour, but she didn't refute him. The clamminess of his skin wouldn't let her.

Several long moments passed. With a colossal effort, Henry rallied, "Sarah," he croaked. "Matilda."

"Shh," Anne murmured, "Let's not think of them. Not now. What's past is past."

She ran a hand over his tousled hair, finding it damp with sweat. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she noted his fever was rising again and knew it was a bad sign. Infection was clearly setting in.

Henry shook his head fiercely. He forced himself into a sitting position, despite the pain that was clear on his face.

"I have to," he grunted, "I have to speak for them. For my daughter, at least. I've left you everything, Anne. Everything. But you will be kind to them, won't you? To Matilda, if not to Sarah. Matilda doesn't deserve your anger. She's an innocent child. No more, no less. Please. Promise me. Tell me you'll be kind to her. For my sake."

There was a part of Anne that longed to refuse, to rail against Henry for his effrontery. However, one glance down into his deep blue eyes and she couldn't find it in her to do it. This wasn't a plea born of arrogance, the way his earlier demands for Matilda to be given a title had been. This was a sincere request born of desperation, a father's genuine need to know that he had done all he could for his daughter. At great cost to herself, she swallowed and nodded.

"I'll look after her, I promise. She can have the Chelsea house and title, since that's where she's growing up."

For a moment, Henry seemed about to press for more; to urge her to promise that she would care for Sarah Rose as well, but their eyes met and he thought better of it. Exhausted, he slumped back on to the pillows.

"Thank you," he gasped, "Thank you."

"Fetch the Princess Rachel and Lady Lancaster," Anne threw the order over her shoulder, never taking her eyes from Henry's white face, "They deserve a chance to say goodbye to their father and uncle."

Minutes later, Rachel, freshly fed and changed and still gurgling quietly from having been sated by her wet nurse, was laid on Henry's chest. His eyes flickered open and he laid a hand on her head.

"She's gorgeous," he croaked, "Gorgeous. We did well there, didn't we?"

Tears filled Anne's eyes at the genuine love in his voice. She laid her hand over his.

"We did," she replied, voice cracking, "We did, my darling."

Content, Henry let his eyes fall shut once more. They never opened again, not even when Bessie, having dashed up from the stables so fast she felt her chest might burst within her, skidded into the room.

* * *

Uncle Henry hadn't been dead when Aunt Anne sent her back to her rooms. He hadn't been dead. Bessie clung to that thought throughout the next few hours. She clung to it through the alarming occurrence of seeing the servants cluster together and whisper, shooting her furtive looks whenever they did so, though if she dared challenge their behaviour, they sprang apart and began fawning over her.

She clung to it through the horrifying realisation of just how quiet the nursery wing was now that Uncle Henry wasn't bounding in and out of it, hovering over Rachel's cradle and making a fuss of her, as he'd been doing for the past five days. He wasn't dead. And this was Uncle Henry. He'd never hurt himself jousting before, ever. He wouldn't die. No. The physicians would make him better. That was their job, after all.

She kept telling herself that, so fiercely that she believed it. Thus, when Aunt Anne suddenly came into the nursery unannounced, eyes red-rimmed and holding herself stiffly upright, Bessie was shocked to the core.

Her stomach lurched and, before she knew what she was doing, she'd flown across the room and, with a half-strangled cry, hurled herself into her aunt's arms.

"Lady Lancaster! Is that any way for you to behave towards Her Majesty? You have to be more careful! Her Grace ought to still be in seclusion and besides, you have to set an example to the Princess now. You can't act like a child anymore!"

Lady Warwick's voice was sharp and Bessie froze. Lady Warwick was right. She did know better.

Before she could apologise, however, Aunt Anne was pulling her close, murmuring into her hair, "It's all right, Bessie, it's all right."

Relieved, Bessie nestled into her aunt, not protesting when she was guided to a window seat and Aunt Anne drew the curtains around them to shut everyone else out. She loved spending time alone with her aunt. She stretched out on the window seat, giving Aunt Anne the corner so she could support her spine better. Murmuring, Bessie slid down to rest her head in what little there was of her aunt's lap.

Aunt Anne hummed behind her and carded her fingers through Bessie's hair. Content for the moment, Bessie closed her eyes. She was still shocked, still worried about Uncle Henry, but having her beloved aunt treat her like this made her feel better. It made everything better.

But then Aunt Anne stopped stroking her hair.

"Bessie. I'm going to need you to be a brave girl for me, I'm afraid."

"It's Uncle Henry, isn't it?"

Bessie knew instantly. She sat up, tears filling her eyes, even as Aunt Anne tried to find her hand and hold it.

"I'm afraid so."

"But he's not dead! He can't be dead! He never even said goodbye to me! He wouldn't go without saying goodbye! He wouldn't! He wouldn't!"

Somewhere in that jumble of words, she'd turned around so that she was facing her aunt. Aunt Anne pulled her back into her arms.

"I'm so sorry, Bessie. I should have sent for you again as soon as I knew how seriously he'd worsened. I meant to, honestly, but the end came so quickly once the fever rose… Can you ever forgive me, Elizabeth?"

Bessie heard her aunt's words, but she couldn't take them in, not fully. Her mind was blank with horror, unable to process anything. Aunt and niece stared at one another, frozen, until Rachel broke the spell by starting to cry.

Someone went to her, tried to soothe her, but, unusually for her, she only became more and more fractious and insistent.

Eventually, the heavy drapes were twitched back. Bessie's favourite maid, Mistress Mary, stood there, a puce-faced Rachel writhing in her arms, wailing like a little gull.

"Forgive me, Madam, Lady Lancaster, but it appears the Princess wants her mother. Her Highness must know Your Grace is here, for she won't settle for any of us."

"You needn't fret, Mary. I'm happy to take her," Aunt Anne smiled and reached for the baby.

A sudden surge of anger welled up in Bessie as her aunt's attention went elsewhere. She sprang to her feet, purposefully jostling the new mother and child as she did so.

"I hate Rachel!" she screamed, "I hate her! I wish she'd never been born! We wouldn't have had the tournament if she hadn't! We wouldn't have had the tournament and Uncle Henry wouldn't be dead! And she got to say goodbye! He knew her! He knew her when he didn't know me! How is that fair?! She won't even remember him! She won't even remember him!"

"Lady Lancaster!" Lady Warwick exclaimed, snatching at her. Bessie evaded her grasp and ran from the room, too angry and upset to really know – or care – where she was going.

Anne watched her niece storm from the room, rooted to the spot with horror. Lady Warwick made to storm after the girl, but, recovering her wits, Anne put up a hand.

"Let Elizabeth go, Lady Warwick. Now is not the time to take her to task. The child is in shock and grieving her beloved Uncle. Allowances must be made. I'm sure she doesn't mean what she said."

Lady Warwick grimaced, but didn't protest. Instead, she turned her attention to the more practical task of helping the Queen soothe the frightened, complaining Princess of Wales before they all went deaf. Rachel might be proving to be a fairly easy child, but that didn't mean she didn't have a pair of lungs on her if she decided to use them.

* * *

* * *

"But Aunt Anne, I want to! Anyway, shouldn't I? I know it's tradition that the oldest royal child in England acts as Chief Mourner at the Prince Consort's funeral. You keep telling me you want me to act as an older sister to Rachel. How can I if you don't treat me like one of the royal children in public? Besides, he was my Uncle long before he married you! Let me do it,  _please!_ "

"Bessie darling, it's not that I don't want you to act as Chief Mourner to your Uncle." Anne pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation, "I do, but you're too young. There's an unwritten part to that rule, that you ought to be of age before you can act as Chief Mourner. You're not twelve yet. And I know your Aunt Mary isn't the head of the family, but she was your uncle's favourite sister. It seems only right for her to lead his funeral procession."

"But…Aunt Anne,  _please_! Uncle Henry is the only father I've ever known, let me lead his funeral procession. Please! I'll never ask you for anything again!"

"Now that I don't believe," Anne scoffed lightly, but she was weakening. She'd never really refused Bessie anything before, certainly not something she'd begged this hard for. Besides, she mused, perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing to at least let Bessie accompany the bier in some capacity. It would put paid to some of the rumours she knew would start circling soon, if indeed they hadn't already. It would stop some people, at least, wondering whether she intended to push Bessie aside now that she had a daughter of her own, especially given how troubled her marriage to the Marquis of Southampton had been in the year or so leading up to his death. Moreover, Bessie was Duchess of Lancaster. Maybe it was time to send her north, however briefly. To let her at least meet some of the people she would someday have to control in Rachel's name. Goodness, now that she thought about it, Bessie was a year older now than she'd been when her mother had married her to the Spanish Prince and sent her to Ludlow.

As that realisation crystalised in her mind, she exhaled deeply.

"Very well. You may act as Chief Mourner if that's really what you want. But I shall send your aunts north with you and there's an end to the matter. So, no more sulking. I need you to be a young lady now, not a little girl, especially if you're going to be acting in my stead. Is that clear?

Anne frowned at Bessie as she spoke, a most unusual occurrence. Bessie bowed her head, eyes uncharacteristically sombre.

"Of course, Aunt Anne. I won't let you down. I promise."

* * *

The horses' hooves were wrapped in sackcloth to muffle their steps, as befitted such a gloomy occasion, but nonetheless, their paces echoed off the cobbles and attracted attention, especially given the fact that the bells were tolling a heavy, slow beat from every spire that lined their route.

The Londoners looked up, stopped and crossed themselves, pausing pensively to watch the Prince Consort's bier pass by on the first stage of its journey to deposit His Highness to rest with his Plantagenet forebears at Pontefract priory.

There were no tear-stained faces – the young Prince Consort hadn't been beloved enough for that – but there were respectful acknowledgements of the cortege as it passed - doffed caps, dropped curtsies and even the odd blessing called out.

In truth, Henry Plantagenet in himself might not have merited even that, but the presence of his young niece ensured that he did.

Seated on a placid black palfrey and gowned in dove-grey cloth of gold, and being led by a groom, since she was carrying a lighted taper in one hand, Bessie led the procession, white-faced and red-eyed. Clearly shaken to the core by her grief, she looked even younger than she actually was and there wasn't a woman who didn't take her to their heart the moment they clapped eyes on her.

The witnesses to this grave occasion ached for the young girl, barely more than a child and yet already so bitterly bereaved twice over, first of her real parents and then of her surrogate father, and so they sought to ease her pain. They called blessings upon the procession, striving to let her know she wasn't alone, that, like her surrogate mother the Queen, she had their support.

They continued to do so until she had vanished from sight and the city gates had long since shut behind her.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Arise (& Don't Stay Down)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13572330) by [mihrsuri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mihrsuri/pseuds/mihrsuri)




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